


Brace for Impact

by KairosImprimatur



Series: tick tick boom [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Asexual Character, Betrayal, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Music, Not Guardians of the Galaxy: Vol. 2 Compliant, Protective Peter Quill, Rescue Missions, Space Opera, Spaceships, Surgery, Team as Family, Trolling the Avengers, Unethical Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 61,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6299131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KairosImprimatur/pseuds/KairosImprimatur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's attempt to hook up with a girl leads the whole team into major trouble - and Rocket may pay for it with his life.</p><p>Sequel to "Detonation Imminent", but it's not necessary to read that one first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Happiest Man in the Galaxy

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT UP, FANDOM. 
> 
> I'm writing a sequel to "Detonation Imminent". If you read that one (the whole thing even? Aw, you're too kind), here's what you need to know: everything is going to be different except for the emotional arc, which will be exactly the same and involve the same two characters. 
> 
> This time, the focus will remain on the Guardians and won't have any significant crossover with other parts of the MCU. The POV won't jump around as much (or possibly at all). Chapters will have titles. ~~Updates will come regularly.~~
> 
> If you didn't read that one, here's what you need to know: nothing! It will function on its own without that background.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocket found a place to crash.

There wasn’t much that Peter missed about flying solo. Having people in his life who depended on him didn’t restrict his freedom so much as redefine it. Sharing everything five ways wasn’t a problem when he was raking in more than five times what he used to get. Long rides between solar systems never got too boring. The seconds between cassette tracks never got too quiet.

In the weeks following Peter’s botched plan to spy on the Avengers and the uneasy reconciliation and alliance that they had made instead, the Guardians managed to keep out of trouble. Well, relatively speaking, anyway. They got into their share of fights, but most of those weren’t drunken brawls, and of those that were, only one involved guns instead of fists, and it totally wasn’t their fault.

The kind of fights that they got into on purpose were the kind that Peter felt good about later. Their reputation for taking down criminals and rescuing innocents was gradually spreading across the galaxy. Better yet, they had a long-term plan, and it was already in motion.

The best way to prepare for Thanos’s next move was to track his minions and dismantle their operations, and Ronan’s death had left a vacancy that opportunistic evildoers were rushing to fill. Wherever there was an underworld power struggle, there was a path to follow for those who knew where to look. As far as Peter knew, the Guardians were the only ones who had shady enough pasts to get the information, incentive to use it for the right reasons, and the skills to survive in the process, so it only made sense that the job fell to them.

At the moment, they were headed back to Knowhere following a lead about a slave ring, formerly controlled by Ronan. If they could find out who had taken over its management, they would know who to target next. Not only would it put them one step ahead of Thanos, but they might be able to take down the ring and free its captives in the process. 

Peter was excited. It usually wasn’t this easy to drum up the team’s enthusiasm for a job, but this time they had found one that hit everyone’s sweet spots. The mission was even sanctioned by Nova Corps, since every enemy they would encounter would be a known criminal. There was no bounty to collect, but Denarian Dey, with thinly concealed exasperation, had agreed to turn a blind eye to any looting they happened to do while on board the slave ships, so there was a good possibility that they would turn a profit before they were done. Basically, it was the perfect case, and the Xandarians that Peter was meeting up with swore they had everything he would need -- not only names, but locations and route predictions. 

The other reason he was excited was that it shouldn’t be too hard to arrange a one-night stand while they were on Knowhere. He’d have to plan ahead, though. Picking up girls was about a hundred times easier now that he was a hero. Bringing them home was about a thousand times harder now that he had roommates. If there was one thing he did miss about flying solo...

When they all sat down for dinner at the end of that day-cycle, he cleared his throat loudly enough to make Rocket roll his eyes and Drax ask if he was choking. “I’m fine,” he stated. “Before we land, I just wanted to see how everyone feels about...having visitors on board.”

Rocket snorted. Gamora barely looked up from her plate to say, “Make sure she brings her own toothbrush.”

Drax furrowed his brow. “Do you plan on recruiting new allies? Hiring someone? I wasn’t aware of any job that needed doing that we could not complete on our own.”

“He means sex visitors, Drax,” Rocket explained around a mouthful of food. 

“I am Groot?” 

“I’ll tell ya when you’re older.”

Peter smiled. Groot was about four feet tall now, and his voice had lowered as he grew, but it still had the occasional crack that did make him sound a little like an adolescent male human. Rocket patted the tree’s arm and said to Peter, “It ain’t no thing, Quill, long as she behaves herself.”

“That’s not really what I’m worried about,” Peter muttered, but not to push his luck, he thanked Rocket and Gamora for their approval, and stayed behind for cleanup when they were done.

Drax stayed, too. When Peter turned from loading the dirty dishes into the washer, he was faced with the solid wall of muscles and tattoos that Drax became in confined spaces. “Peter,” he said solemnly, “I don’t object to your bringing females onto the ship.”

“Uh, good. Thanks.”

“It’s been your practice for many years to engage in these liaisons of temporary gratification, has it not?”

Peter began to look for escape routes. “I had something of a rep for it, yeah.”

Drax gave him an indulgent smile, an expression that his face had never been made to wear. “Then let me tell you something that the elders of my family told me: a union without commitment is lacking in trust, and trust builds slowly. It is best to begin as soon as you can.”

Gripped by sudden dread, Peter staggered backward and steadied himself against the counter, unable to tear his gaze away from Drax. “Oh my God,” he breathed. “Are you giving me _dating advice?_ ”

“Of course. As we are friends, and you lacked a paternal figure in your youth, it’s appropriate for me to help you if I can.” He placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You must understand I mean no insult. I simply wish to warn you of the difficulties that your habits may cause with your future wife…”

“My future _what?_ ”

“Marriage is a worthy pursuit. You’re still a young outlaw; take your time choosing, but believe me, one day you’ll desire a lifelong mate.”

Peter twisted around at the sound of Gamora returning to the kitchen, and waved at her desperately as she passed through. “Gamora help.”

“Call me if either of you break any bones,” she replied, vanishing out the other door.

“I’m not hurting you,” said Drax, sounding confused. “We are conversing about romance.”

Peter raised his voice to a yell. “Rocket help!”

The response came promptly from somewhere deep in the ship. “You’re on your own, Quill!”

“Groot?” Peter tried, his last hope. Groot was still sitting at the table and had been watching raptly, though he was unlikely to have comprehended much. “Groot, if you think I should stay a legendary star-captain bachelor for the rest of my life, say ‘I am Groot’, okay?”

There was a long, long silence as the three of them stared at each other. Groot picked up the peel of a fruit that had been left on the table and put it in his mouth.

Drax released Peter’s shoulder with a pat. “It seems he agrees with me.”

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

They reached Knowhere on schedule, and Drax made no further attempt to interfere in Peter’s life choices. Neither did any of the others. They had all been traveling the starways long enough to know that customs varied between races, cultures, and individuals, and their little team was about as varied as it got. Peter’s utter confidence that his new family would always be by his side was supported by his conviction that they wouldn’t think any less of him for having the occasional hookup.

Anyway, he was less concerned about their judgment than he was about preserving the unity that they had fought so hard to find and nurture. Since the near miss on Earth, their group dynamic had changed in a few subtle ways. One was that Rocket began sleeping in Peter’s bed. It wasn’t every night, and there didn’t seem to be any rhythm or ritual to it, but more often than not, Peter would find a lump under his blankets when he turned in, or feel something brush up against his back as he was nodding off. In the morning, they discussed ship maintenance or busted on each other in between yawns and hygiene routines. Occasionally, they would talk in the darkness, too, Rocket fulfilling his promise to reveal some of his old demons in the hopes of putting them to rest. So far, he still had his share of nightmares, but it was a start.

Peter had never imagined he would be comfortable literally sleeping with someone he wasn’t figuratively sleeping with, but it only took a couple nights to start feeling normal. He even wondered sometimes if part of the reason that he had always been seeking out new bedmates was because he didn’t like to sleep alone. 

Kids with siblings, he had gathered, saw it as a sign of maturity and independence when they got their own rooms. For Peter it had been the opposite. All of the Ravagers, aside from those at the very top tier of the hierarchy, shared bunks whenever they weren’t living in their own ships. Yondu had made an exception for Peter to protect him, and Peter, ashamed and embarrassed by the special treatment, spent years begging for a roommate. When he got one, a scrawny tattooed teenager, he felt like he had just vaulted into adulthood.

That first roommate had been dead for years now, and the only clear memory that Peter had of him was that he snored. Even that hadn’t bothered him at the time, though. The sound of another person’s sleep was his own mental cue to relax. Over the years, more women than he could count had comforted him with their even breathing on the bed beside him, and now he had Rocket.

Out of curiosity one day he asked Gamora if she slept better with someone else there, and she gave him the dark look that meant he was being an idiot and lucky that she considered him a friend. “No. Anyone I trusted to not kill me in my sleep was probably someone I had been sent to kill in his sleep. If you’re testing the waters, Peter, you should know by now I like my privacy.”

“I’m not,” he said hastily. “Already got a roomie, anyway.”

“It’s different for Rocket,” she went on, because of course she had noticed which door he had been coming out of in the morning. “He’s not an animal, but he has an animal’s instincts. I’m sure he feels safer with you.”

Caught off guard by her unsolicited approval, Peter put his feet up and rubbed his chin, contemplating. “You think Groot’s okay with it?” he asked.

“If Groot wasn’t, Rocket wouldn’t be.”

There was no need to ponder Drax’s sleeping habits. It was clear that he never intended to fall in love again, and just as clear that he viewed cohabitation as something that only spouses did. Peter wondered if that meant he thought that Peter and Rocket were married now. Well, whatever. Maybe that would make him drop the subject of Peter’s future wife.

Someday, he reflected later on, he would have to explain it properly for Drax: he didn’t want a real romantic relationship because he wasn't lonely and he wasn't lacking anything. He was traversing through the galaxy with the truest friends a man could have, doing their best to make it a better place. Relationships always brought change, and right now he was so happy that change could only mean bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions comments complaints? It's good to be back - missed you guys, and I'm psyched to start posting this. Hope you like it!


	2. A Very Private Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes friends.

In the wake of Ronan’s attack on Knowhere, it had attracted a new wave of opportunistic travelers. Ironically, disrupting the fragile neutrality that had been the longtime rule there had actually made it safer in most people’s eyes. The power balance had more or less leveled out, and without the Collector’s facility stationed at the center of the district, there was little reason for anyone to make it a target.

The Guardians split up on arrival; Rocket and Groot went to shop for mechanical parts, Gamora for other supplies. Drax declared that he had some gambling to do, which Peter couldn’t object to since Drax had some kind of inexplicable luck and was generous with his winnings. 

Peter himself decided to take a walk around and see what had changed since their last visit, as he had some time to kill before he met up with his contact. Most of Knowhere’s permanent residents were wary by nature, but those who knew him by name or reputation were willing to talk, and he was interested in what they had to say about their home. Trade had never been better, apparently; the nonexistent bureaucratic system made it attractive to anyone seeking to buy and sell discreetly, and anyone else wasn’t likely to stick around long.

With more traffic came more danger from the outside, though, and Peter soon found himself speaking with Knowhere’s new Chief of Security. It surprised him that a place which had been so resistant to government would appoint anyone to any kind of station at all, but what surprised him more was that the Chief of Security was a dog. Specifically, it was the dog that they had seen from the Collection before it blew up, a friendly retriever wearing a modified space suit with a CCCP logo. He had an impressive set of powers, including the ability to speak psionically, but he was still a dog, and he didn’t even seem self-conscious about it.

 _:Cosmo is takink responsibility very serious,:_ he explained to Peter. _:All responsibility. Chief of Security, man’s best friend. More, Cosmo is takink pride in job well done. Is always beink happy to help Guardians of Galaxy. You have problem? You come to Cosmo.:_

“Thanks,” said Peter sincerely. “Here’s hoping we won’t have to, but you’ll definitely be seeing more of us. We don’t have a base set up, aside from the ship, and I have a feeling we could use one.”

 _:Is good instinct. Need to rest paws after long day catching frisbee. Talk to Cosmo when you have decision. But remember,:_ he showed his teeth for the briefest second, _:you makink mess, you scoopink mess up yourself.:_

Peter certainly didn’t have any intention of making a mess, though he was as prepared to encounter one as ever. He bid Cosmo goodbye and made his way to the loudest bar in Knowhere, where he had arranged to meet the three Xandarians who had the information. They were all Astran, neatly dressed and sitting quietly at a table together, which probably would have made them stick out like sore thumbs except that Knowhere didn’t even have enough consistency for anyone at all to stick out.

Once introductions had been made, they began the conversation by heaping praise onto him for defeating Ronan. Being preceded by his heroic deeds was still a novelty, so he let them keep talking for as long as they wanted, occasionally providing a little bit of hyperbole where he thought the story sounded like it could use it. It was best to make this look like a casual gathering, anyway. Foreign individuals might not draw attention here, but valuable news did.

The woman, Keelah, gazed up at him through big, half-lidded eyes. “It’s just _amazing_ what you did for our planet. Facing that tyrant all by yourself. I’ve never known anyone so brave.”

“Well, I wasn’t all by myself, I had the Guardians,” said Peter before he had even considered how best to capitalize on her misconception. He must have been slipping. “They’re the brave ones. I was just, you know, doing what comes naturally.”

“And that’s exactly why we need you!” said the older of the two men. “This is a mission that calls for true heroes.” He had the same sun-yellow skin as Keelah, and the same look of fervent admiration, but Peter hoped he wouldn’t decide to express it with the same flirtatious mannerisms. Unless he was very much mistaken, he had found his one night stand, and he hadn’t even had to go looking for it. Keelah was an unexpected bonus to this interview, and he wanted to make friends with her, privately and soon.

“Where are the other Guardians now?” asked Marwek, the younger man. “Will you need to consult with them before we seal our agreement?”

Peter shook his head. “No, they’re on board,” he asserted. “They told me to sign on the dotted line and come back with the specs, soon as I could.” He looked at the time. By now, the Guardians might be literally on board as well, waiting on the Milano for him to return with news. “So, what am I gonna tell them?”

There was money involved in this, but it had already changed hands: as a gesture of goodwill, Peter had transferred the agreed amount of units before they met. If they had decided in the last hour that they didn’t like him or didn’t want to proceed for some reason, he’d have to demand it back, and they’d have to decide if they would rather give it up peaceably, or have the Guardians as their enemies.

He wondered if Keelah and Marwek were thinking something similar as they exchanged a glance and nod with each other, and with their other friend, whose name Peter kept forgetting. Marwek raised his glass and said, “We have a deal,” before leading them in a Xandarian toast.

The actual deal was accomplished by handing Peter an unmarked information stick, which he slipped discreetly into his pocket to plug it into the Milano’s central computers later. “Can I give you guys a ride back to your station?” he offered. “You’re on our way.”

The two men declined, saying they had their own transport. Both looked confused when Keelah said, “I would like the chance to see your ship,” but when she followed it with a silky smile, they both rolled their eyes and stood up.

“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Quill,” said Marwek. “We wish you the best of luck.”

After they had departed, Keelah was still smiling at Peter. It was hard to misinterpret her intentions, especially when she reached out under the table and stroked his knee. “I would _very_ much like to show you my ship,” Peter told her, and she answered by finishing off her drink in one gulp and setting the empty glass down hard on the table.

Keelah giggled all the way to the hangar, holding tightly to Peter’s hand and darting through alleys and shortcuts with him. When they were almost there he pulled one of his favorite tricks on her and came to an abrupt halt, backed her against a wall, and kissed her deeply. He’d been slapped for that in the past, but it was worth the risk. Keelah reacted exactly as he’d hoped, returning the kiss after one brief squeak of surprise. Like all Astrans, she was hairless, but he smoothed his hand over her scalp and hoped it meant something romantic to her kind.

“Just one thing,” said Peter when he had freed his lips. “The whole team is probably at home right now, so just...don’t let anyone intimidate you, okay? They can act a little, um, unpolished, but they’re my friends. They’d never hurt you.”

Clearly, she didn’t know what to make of that, but she didn’t hesitate to follow him up the ramp into the ship’s cargo bay. Peter crossed his fingers and said a prayer under his breath.  
He wished that he had insisted on securing their cooperation in making a good impression on his visitors. Most of all, he wanted the chance to tell Rocket to sleep in his own room, without having to explain to Keelah why Rocket needed to be told to sleep in his own room.

A little quick action should take care of everything, though. He just had to introduce her to everyone, and they would understand and give him space. As soon as he and Keelah had stepped in, he filled his lungs to announce their presence, but was stopped short when he saw that they weren’t alone in the cargo bay. Gamora paused at the end of a graceful sequence of movements and looked over her shoulder at them. “Hello, Peter.”

Back on Earth, Peter had urged Gamora to pick up a hobby as a means of reclaiming her identity from her past with Thanos. To his infinite delight, she had chosen dancing, and she worked at it nearly every day. However, she didn’t dress for the stage when practicing, and today, she wasn’t dressed at all.

Peter clapped a hand over his eyes, too late to avoid seeing anything. The truth was that he was used to it, anyway -- Gamora, once she had ascertained that none of the males on board were interested in her body, would occasionally leave it uncovered if she was hot, or on her way to the shower, or for no reason that he could identify. 

This time, it was the latter. “Who’s this you’ve brought home?” she asked nonchalantly, returning to her stretches.

“This is, uh, Keelah.” Peter kept his hand floating in front of his face, but couldn’t keep himself from noticing her turn around to face them. “Keelah, this is my friend Gamora, and we’re friends. Totally just friends. She’s more like a sister really. And we clearly interrupted her in the middle of a very private moment, and we’re going to leave her alone now…”

Gamora made an offended huff. “We’re _much_ more than friends. And if I wanted privacy I’d go to my own bunk, you know that.”

Peter could only imagine the shade of red that his face had become. He gripped Keelah’s wrist to lead her out of the bay, ignoring Gamora calling out, “Well, it was nice to meet you!”

As soon as the door closed behind them, Peter turned to face Keelah. “I swear, there’s nothing between me and her.”

“Okay.”

“No, you have to believe me, she just-- what?”

“I said okay. There’s nothing.”

Peter blinked. He had expected to spend half the night explaining Gamora’s habits, but Keelah was gazing up at him with no sign of suspicion or jealousy. He grinned. “Then let’s continue our tour. This is the shared living area--”

“And I am Drax.” The words came into the room at the same time as the speaker did, and in the same way, dispassionate but too big to be ignored. He stopped in front of Peter and Keelah and crossed his arms, frowning.

“Um, hello. I’m Keelah? Star-Lord met with my colleagues and me today?”

Drax nodded. His eyes flicked from her to Peter and back again. “I see. He’s brought you here for intercourse?”

Peter choked. Keelah tittered nervously. Drax went on, oblivious: “You need not fear any mistreatment at his hands. Peter Quill chooses his sexual partners indiscriminately, but he is honorable. You will always be safe with the Guardians of the Galaxy.”

“That’s great, Drax, she really needed to hear that,” Peter snapped, belatedly remembering that Drax would interpret his sarcasm as affirmation. “Is there anywhere on this damn boat where we can be safe _from_ the Guardians of the Galaxy?”

Keelah made a small sound as if in answer, but when he turned to look at her, all of her attention was on her scarf, which was now somehow wrapped around Groot. Peter sighed. Had Groot been standing there the whole time? The scarf had a pattern of flowers, which must have made him want to touch it, but how he had gotten himself so tangled in a matter of seconds was anyone’s guess. Keelah was still holding one end of it and reaching toward the rest of it, clearly wanting it back but unwilling to get close enough to Groot to separate it from him.

“Hang on,” said Peter. “Stand still, Groot, I got this. No, don’t try to help. I’m just gonna give this back to the nice lady it belongs to, okay?” He looked up from the tangle for a moment and pointed out of the room. “Keelah, that door is my bunk if you want to get away from the circus. I’ll be right in. With your thing. Intact.”

“You seem upset,” Drax observed when Keelah had taken the suggestion. 

“Nope,” said Peter through gritted teeth, unwinding a length of fabric from Groot’s arm. “I’m perfectly composed and looking forward to a nice evening trying to explain to that girl why you said I chose her indiscriminately.” Without leaving any more room for Drax to analyze the situation, he said, “Hey, if you see Rocket, tell him we’re ready to lift off. And that I _don’t want to be disturbed!_ ”

The scarf came free at last. Peter wound it around his hand and headed for his room as Drax was responding, “I believe Rocket is currently--”

“Don’t want to hear it, Drax! Just tell him what I said!”

When his bunk’s door had closed behind him and cut him off from the rest of the ship, he took a moment to lean back against it and breathe a sigh of relief, eyes closed, while he prepared to sweet-talk Keelah until she was in the mood for more than talk. He deserved this, dammit; it had been _so long._ The others didn’t know what it was like to have an active libido. Half of them didn’t even have a libido, as far as he knew.

“Open your eyes, Star-Lord,” came Keelah’s voice in a seductive croon. Peter obeyed instantly. She was kneeling on his bed, poised with her hands behind her head, wearing a lacy pair of panties and some jewelry and nothing else. 

Adapting his plan to the moment, Peter dropped the sweet-talk part and strode across the room, shucking his jacket as he did. Keelah fell forward willingly into his arms, and he draped her scarf back around her neck and laid her down on the bed, showering her with kisses that only started at her mouth.

 _”Hey,”_ said a muffled voice. Peter froze. His heart sank, and it wasn’t the only part of him that did. There was a mound in the covers right beside where he had just lowered Keelah, and it was moving.

“Rocket,” he groaned. 

Keelah sat up like she was spring-loaded and snatched a pillow to cover herself. The raccoon’s face emerged, fur rumpled. “Watch it,” he complained. “You big monkeys nearly squashed me.”

“Keelah,” said Peter, devoid of hope, “meet Rocket.”


	3. Things Fall Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's situation gets worse before it gets better. Once it gets better, it gets worse.

“Rocket, what are you doing in here?”

“Takin’ a nap. Ran into some snafu while I was stockin’ up on engine parts. That dog from the Collection, he thinks he’s Head of Security now, how d’ya like that? Chased me halfway around Knowhere, the mangy mutt, wore me out. Anyways. How’d you make out? Got the lead you were goin’ for?”

Peter cast a significant look toward Keelah. “We’re a little busy to talk right now.”

“Oh.” Rocket peered at Keelah hugging the pillow to her chest, then repeated, “Ohhh! I get it. So you want me to take up less of the bed, right?”

“I would like you to leave the room entirely.”

Rocket huffed, but didn’t make much more of a fuss before he made his exit, tail twitching. Peter closed the door behind him manually, then sat down on the bed again, next to Keelah but not touching her. “I wouldn’t, um,” he began awkwardly. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to leave right now instead of riding with us to your station.”

The floor lurched suddenly. Recognizing the feeling of the ship lifting off, Peter rubbed a hand over his face. Drax must have told Gamora that it was time to go. “Okay, never mind. But it shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes or so to get there.”

“But can’t we still….you know?” Keelah had loosed her hold on the pillow, and her pose was seductive once again. “Don’t you want to?”

Peter was at a loss for words. Of course he wanted to. He didn’t know much about Keelah, but she was petite and lithe and eager, and it wasn’t as if he was holding her to any special standards. But why did _she_ want to? It had always been his experience that finding a third party hiding in the bed was a buzzkill for women. She certainly hadn’t seemed happy about it a few minutes ago.

“Were you born on Xandar?” he asked.

Keelah recoiled, as if the question hadn’t just confused but offended her. “Why?”

“I just feel like, it’s a shame we don’t really know anything about each other. I mean, are you related to Marwek and...that other guy? What do you do for work? What’s your favorite kind of music?”

She frowned. “I’m not so interesting.”

“We could talk about me,” he suggested, grinning.

“I don’t want to talk.” She reached out and ran a hand up his thigh and into his shirt.

He caught her wrist and moved it gently away. “Keelah, this doesn’t feel right. I’ve, well, I’ve been with a lot of girls and I wasn’t always Captain Chivalrous about it. I don’t know for sure I’ll even remember your name a week from now.” She was looking at him like he had three heads. Floundering, he said the first thing that came to mind, which unfortunately turned out to be a quote from Drax: “A union without commitment is lacking in trust…”

Keelah rolled her eyes. “This isn’t what I heard you were like.”

“I’m not! I mean, I’m usually not, but I think maybe I should be?”

“Fine.” She reached for her clothing and began dressing in quick, efficient motions. “Then how do you suggest we spend the next twenty minutes?”

He would have pointed out that he had just offered a few topics of conversation to occupy them, but she had thrown down the question like a challenge. He had the feeling that the night hadn’t yet reached its pinnacle of awkwardness. “Do you….want to hear my mix tapes?”

She snorted derisively, but then brightened. “I know. Put the data pocket we gave you into your computer, and I can show you the information we have.”

Peter shrugged; he didn’t really need her to walk him through it, but he wasn’t sure what else to do with a woman who wasn’t interested in music. He fished the information stick out of his jacket and plugged it into his bunk’s console.

“See?” said Keelah as the screen lit up with figures and maps. “This is where you go next, and these are the access codes, and you’ll meet him there, and these are all of the captives.”

It was as simple as Peter had expected. All that remained now was to see if it would be comprehensive enough to keep them on the right path, and only time would answer that. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve taken this route before. Shouldn’t have any problem.”

Keelah insisted on paging through all of the files and adding her own descriptions to them, though Peter thought privately that she was mostly pointing out the obvious. She stopped in mid-sentence when Rocket’s voice came over the intercom, “Pullin’ up to Paragon Eleven-Zero Astral Station, five minutes.”

“Finally!” said Keelah, switching off the console. She turned to Peter with a cheerful smile. “Before I go...one last kiss?”

After the way things had been going so far, it was a confusing request, but Peter was glad she was giving him a chance to make her happy in some small way. He took both of her hands in his and gave them a squeeze, and she responded by taking the floral scarf from around her neck and looping it around his to draw him closer. 

Peter chuckled and closed his eyes. The tip of his nose brushed against hers. She reached up, draping her arms over his shoulders, and her lips met his.

Less than a second later, it seemed, she broke off the kiss, but her arms were still tightening around his neck. He opened his eyes, wondering if he had missed something.

Keelah was across the room from him. He clutched at his neck; what he had felt there was not her embrace at all, but her scarf, which was wrapping itself around and around him, rapidly cutting off his air.

“Bye, Star-Lord,” said Keelah, disappearing through the door. It closed behind her as Peter managed to suck in one more gasping breath and fell to his knees, clawing at his throat. The narrow length of fabric, or whatever it was, constricted like a snake around its prey. He wondered how it had seemed like such a normal piece of clothing while it was tangled up with Groot, and more importantly, how he had managed to get it off then.

More out of luck than design, he fell against the intercom button as he flailed. He couldn’t speak, but he tapped a quick SOS, said a prayer, and then returned to pulling at the scarf with both hands. Almost...almost…

The door opened and Gamora’s voice, like a ray of sunshine, cried out, “Peter!” 

She seemed to have no trouble at all in tearing the scarf off of him. Maybe it was their combined effort, but she also had no trouble securing it in a knot around the bedpost while he was still panting and wheezing on the floor. “What happened?” she demanded. “Where did that come from?”

“My date’s trying to kill me,” Peter explained weakly.

Gamora immediately pressed the button on the intercom and announced, “Everyone gear up, we have a Code Quill.”

Peter staggered to his feet. “We have a Code what?”

She ignored the question and began checking her own gear, so all he could do was follow her out into the ship. “Do you need to recover before we go into battle?” she asked.

“Hell no.” He said it before he’d thought about it, but after a moment of sincere examination, it was still true. He holstered his blasters, fastened his helmet in its place behind his ear, and tugged on his boots and their jet attachments. 

The other three Guardians showed up promptly, each already loaded up with his favorite weapons. “Was wonderin’ why he was goin’ on about an evil vine,” said Rocket sheepishly, tossing his head to indicate Groot. “You alright, Pete?”

Peter’s lips quirked into a smile. “Gettin’ there. What can you tell me about where we are?”

This would be their first time on Paragon Eleven-Zero Astral Station, but they were mostly all the same: ships the size of cities, home to thousands. The Ravagers’ base was a similar concept, but with greater mobility. Civilian stations didn’t need to move quickly; everyone on them was simply living there. Hopefully, Rocket would have something more specific pertaining to this one.

Rocket pulled up a map on the display screen as he answered. “We’re parked in a drop-off zone, probably don’t see a lot of traffic. Your girlfriend coulda slipped away pretty easy, but the faster we get out there, the better chance we got of roundin’ her up.”

Drax waited until Rocket had finished, nodded, and then said, “Nobody has asked yet why this woman would want to kill you.”

“And someone really should,” said Peter. “So that’s gonna be my first question when we catch her.”

“I am Groot!”

Peter tried to address him sensitively: “You’re sitting this one out, okay, Groot? Won’t be long before you’re tougher than all of us again, but until then we need you to stay right here.”

Groot wilted and made a sad sound, but Rocket, unmoved, told him to quit whining and then looked up at Peter. “He saved your ass, you know that? Rubbed the coating off the strangle-silk so it only gotcha at half power, and that butterface witch didn’t even know it.”

“Thank you,” Peter said to Groot, lowering himself to a half-crouch to meet his eyes. “And I’m sorry. I should have listened to what you were trying to tell me.”

Pacified, Groot retreated a step, showing that he was letting them leave without him.

“Let’s move,” said Gamora.

“That’s my line,” Peter protested as they filed out of the hatch and set foot on Paragon Station.

It looked much as he had expected. The docking area was through a wide landing portal, sealed off so that they were in an open space so cavernous and empty that the ceiling overhead might as well have been the sky. A few vehicles of transport and construction were parked to each side of them, but they saw no people. 

Rocket led the way, not seeming greatly encumbered by the Hadron Enforcer he had slung over his shoulder. Drax and Gamora instinctively fanned out to either side of him, and Peter hung back, searching for an exit that Keelah was likely to have taken. 

“We could split up,” Gamora suggested. “It will take a long time to search the station, otherwise.”

“No,” said Peter. “This place may be civilian but that doesn’t mean everyone here is gonna mean us well. If we find a bar or something we’ll mingle, chat up the locals. But stay within shouting distance of each other.”

As if in answer, a shout rang out from overhead: _”Now!”_

Peter reacted before he could see anyone, firing both blasters in the general direction of the voice. Rocket’s reflexive reaction was a little more effective: he aimed his giant gun at the narrowest part of a beam supporting a higher level walkway, causing the entire structure to come crashing down in front of them. They all had to dodge the shrapnel, and Peter saw Drax catch and throw a chunk the size of a king bed, but when it had settled, they had plenty of cover.

They needed it immediately. The initial cry had been followed by gunfire from above, and now there was movement from the machines that had appeared empty a moment ago. Peter ducked behind the wall that Rocket had created to take stock. Drax had run in the other direction and was dismantling an earthbound dogfighter with his bare hands, evading its cannons easily by standing in between them. Gamora wasn’t visible, but before he could worry about her, she called down from a perch against the wall behind and above him. “There’s no more than a dozen of them. They’ll stay hiding in the machines, so target those.”

“Did you see uniforms?” Peter called back without trying to locate her exact position.

Rocket, crouched against the same blockade as Peter, answered instead. “Nah, these ain’t professionals. Add this to your list of questions for Killer.”

“Keelah,” Peter muttered, but Rocket’s version of her name was starting to sound just as accurate. He followed the direction of one path of laser beams and focused on its source long enough to stand and return fire, then went back to his knees.

“Gotta say, Quill,” said Rocket, “this is way better than your last plan.” He released another lightning bolt from the Enforcer and grinned as a bulldozer stopped advancing.

“This isn’t a plan. This is us being ambushed.”

“Yeah, maybe we should just not make plans anymore.” He lowered the weapon’s scope from his eye as he noticed something outside of its field. “Ooooooh. They got one of them rooster mechs.”

Peter looked. The rooster, so named because of the way it walked on a pair of digitigrade legs, was moving slowly and hadn’t yet fired on them, probably piloted by someone who wasn’t experienced with it.

Rocket set down his gun. “Cover me. That poor thing needs a new master.”

“I don’t think you should--”

It was too late; Rocket had already disappeared into the piles of wreckage, instinctively finding the path that concealed him best as he moved toward the mech. Gamora, from her higher vantage point, offered him more cover than Peter could, but it only took a moment before they saw the rooster stop altogether. The pilot was tossed out of its rear, yelling, and then the machine did a little dance, hopping from one leg to the other. Its lights blinked a code in Peter’s direction. 

“He’s in,” Gamora laughed, stating the obvious. The flashing lights had spelled out “FUN”.

“Drax, get clear!” Peter shouted. “Rocket’s gonna go to town! I mean, he’s gonna shoot everything!”

One way or another, Drax must have understood. He sheathed his knives and hauled himself up to the next level, like Gamora had done on the other side. Peter sat back, chuckling. Every vehicle and machine that had shot at them was now getting paid back with interest. His ears were ringing with the sound of gunfire and small explosions, but somewhere underneath it he thought he could trace a strand of maniacal laughter.

“We should take one of them for questioning,” Gamora called down to him.

“If we can grab someone before they all rabbit,” Peter agreed. He checked in each direction, but nobody was trying to fight at close range. The rooster’s guns had taken over the battle so completely that there wasn’t much left for anyone else to do. 

At least they were winning. He couldn’t say it, given his position of leadership and all, but Rocket wasn’t the only one having fun. If it wasn’t for his annoyance with Keelah and concern over what her intentions could mean, he would have counted this a pretty good day.

That reminded him. “Hey Gamora. What’s a Code Quill?”

He heard her snort derisively. “Do you really think we wouldn’t have planned for the contingency of your date trying to kill you?”

Peter was coming up with a good retort for that when everyone - friends, enemies, and occupied machines - stopped what they were doing to look at an incoming flying object. He hadn’t realized until now that the portal they had flown through wasn’t the only one: the lot was tube-shaped, and this was coming in at the other end. As it approached, he almost laughed, seeing that it was a pod not even built for open space travel, let alone fighting.

“Are those their reinforcements?” he asked Gamora wryly. The pod couldn’t possibly hold more than two people, and it was destined to break down the second it touched the surface, at the speed it was keeping.

And then all of a sudden he realized what that could mean. The vessel wasn’t trying to land and it wasn’t here by accident. Without regard for his own safety he left his cover and started running toward the pod as fast as he could. Gamora and Drax, he saw from the corner of eye, were swinging down from their respective hiding spots. None of them were anywhere near the pod yet when it came smashing down onto the rooster mech.

Just as he had predicted, the pod fell apart on impact. The mech fell apart, too. Everything around it fell apart. The world fell apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that was the sound of the real plot beginning.


	4. Impact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An entire ship just crashed into Rocket, and everyone watched it happen. What now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a longer wait this time...already. Hope you didn't mind the wait, but also kind of hope it built up some suspense. :)

Peter dropped into a slide to cover the last few feet of the distance to the remains of the rooster’s cockpit, rolling once to extinguish the blaze that his coat had picked up from the burning rubble. Someone was crawling out of the other vehicle in the collision, but all he could do was hope that they weren’t yet in shape to attack him. Beneath one long sheet of plating, he found Rocket, limbs twisted unnaturally and clothing soaked in blood. 

He was breathing. His eyes even fluttered a little, and nothing large appeared to have pierced his torso, but Peter didn’t waste time trying to check him for consciousness. Since he wasn’t strapped in, it wasn’t difficult to lift him out of the seat, but there was no way to know where to touch him that wouldn’t risk complicating his injuries. Peter kept up a steady stream of words as he moved, just in case Rocket could hear him: “It’s me. Don’t panic, Rocket, it’s me, I’ve got you. We’re getting out of here. I’ve got you.”

More than ever before, he was grateful for the Guardians’ synergy, the shared bond that let them function as one in a crisis. He didn’t have to tell Gamora to run back ahead of him to prepare the ship for immediate takeoff. He didn’t have to tell Drax to cover him as he held Rocket close to his chest and ran, hard as he could, never daring to look over his shoulder to see who was in pursuit.

He could tell by the sound of them that there were too many too close, though. They had the sense to stay inside their machines, while the Guardians were on foot. Drax was doing his part as the team’s one man army, but even he could be overwhelmed. Peter had no choice but to leave him to it. Setting Rocket down right now, even for a moment, would mean the end for him. The Milano was straight ahead, and Peter just had to get through the hatch so that Drax would know to abandon the fight and follow, and then Gamora could close the doors behind them.

The ship’s external lights flashed, and Peter called up all of his strength to put on an extra burst of speed. The ramp was lowered, but he saw immediately that he wouldn’t make it - some of the opposing army had cut them off on their bikes and speeders, and they were now dismounting and positioning to surround them.

Gamora must not have had the angle to see the predicament from inside the ship, because the hatch was opening. Peter almost shouted in frustration, but he couldn’t spare the breath for it. If the door was vacant, there was no way to stop the attackers from getting into the Milano before he did. Their only hope was to let Drax clear a path so he could get Rocket safely inside and then go back to the fight, and it looked like that wasn’t going to happen.

**_”I...AM...GROOOOOT!”_ **

Three or four pursuers who had been swarming up the ramp were tossed aside like twigs. Groot’s reach seemed suddenly limitless, his voice thunderous, his face a carved mask of fury. Nobody else had a chance to get near him, or to block the way into the ship. Peter stumbled anyway, unsure of how to get around Groot himself. The flailing wooden limbs around him extended past his field of vision, and there were so many that it seemed like an entire forest was hurtling out of the hatch. 

Rocket groaned in his arms. Trusting Groot to control the onslaught, Peter dashed toward him and didn’t stop until both of his feet were firmly inside the ship. “We made it,” he told Rocket between heavy gasps, but before going any further, he turned and saw, through a wall of living branches, that Drax was right behind him. Outside, people were screaming and Groot was still roaring back at them, but nobody was attempting to try their luck with a chase up the ramp. “Groot, get in!” Peter commanded as Drax cleared the door.

Groot followed the order to the best of his ability, but Peter could see that it wasn’t easy for him to pull in all of his extensions at once. Some of them were probably still wrapped around opponents out there, or penetrating bodies, or in the process of being hacked off. Finally he freed himself and fell backward into the ship, and Peter called out, “Gamora, shut the door!”

As soon as he had spoken, it was done, and he could feel the ship’s launch begin. There was a patter of projectiles hitting the hull, but he had already seen that none of the vehicles out there were designed to leave the atmosphere. Their escape would be clean from this point.

The infirmary was close to the entrance, planned there for exactly this kind of circumstance. Peter laid Rocket down, wincing when some fur came off because the blood had made it stick to his coat. He shed the coat and his gloves, leaving his arms bare to the elbow and unhindered, as Drax rushed in and powered up the table to access its full range of scanners and instruments. Rocket moaned in a way that made Peter think he was regaining consciousness, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing at the moment. Abandoning thought in favor of velocity, Peter reached for the scissors to cut Rocket’s clothing off.

It was as bad as it had looked when he had picked him up from the battlefield. Everything on his right side was crumpled and torn, and Peter hadn’t even thought it was possible to break Rocket’s reinforced skeleton. Blood was spattered over so much of his body that it was hard to trace it back to the wounds. Most worrying of all, there was a silver gleam of exposed circuitry on his chest, and it was emitting a faint spark at irregular intervals.

Drax had been preparing a syringe, which Peter knew would contain a formula that sedated the patient while accelerating the body’s natural healing and blood production. He found the right spot on Rocket’s neck, framed it with his fingers, and nodded at Drax to administer the shot.

“This will only suspend the damage,” Drax warned. 

“I know,” said Peter. The serum had worked wonders for the Guardians in the past, but it wasn’t a panacea. “He’s gonna need surgery.”

Rocket’s eyes popped open before the syringe had even come close. A stream of profanities, interspersed with bestial snarls, came out of his mouth, and he was suddenly struggling so hard that Peter could barely hold him down with both hands.

“You must be still, my friend!” Drax said urgently. “This is for your aid!”

Peter wanted to tell him that reasoning with Rocket in this kind of state wouldn’t work, but he soon found himself trying to do the same thing. “Steady, man, steady, come on!”

Drax kept trying to complete the injection, but Rocket’s head was one of the only parts of him that was unharmed, and he was snapping his jaws wildly every time the needle came closer. Peter reached across him, trying to straighten his position on the table while everyone’s voice kept getting louder and more insistent, and Rocket took the chance to clamp down on his forearm with all his strength.

_”Owwwwwwwwww.”_ The initial shock of pain didn’t lessen; Rocket’s teeth were sunk deep in the flesh, and he wasn’t letting go, even after blood began welling up around his lips. 

“Should I--?” Drax began, alarmed.

Peter sucked in a breath through his teeth. “No, just stick him while his mouth is occupied.” He angled his arm to block Rocket’s view, and Drax got the five seconds that he needed to inject him.

All three of them were still for a moment, waiting for it to take effect. Peter’s eyes stayed locked on Rocket’s, which were at once berserk red and rimmed with tears. Slowly, he moved his free hand to cup Rocket’s face, stroking between his ears with his thumb. “Alright, buddy,” he whispered. “Just rest, now.”

Drax swapped the syringe for the skinlock, a tool that sealed up wounds, without stitches or bandages, long enough for the flesh to knit back together. In Peter’s experience it wasn’t painful, simply gliding over the skin like a lukewarm clothes iron, but Rocket flinched wherever it touched him. He still had a growl deep in his throat, and was still staring at Peter like a pair of oncoming headlights. Finally he blinked once, slowly. His mouth’s grip loosened, and his eyelids drooped again and again until staying closed. Peter delicately pried the teeth out of his bloody forearm and eased it away.

His adrenaline surge wore off all at once, leaving him with a fresh sense of shock. The monitors on the table showed that Rocket was stabilized, but to the naked eye, he didn’t look it. Peter reached out blindly for the drawer where the infirmary automatically prepared hot towels whenever it was in use. Drax caught his arm instead and applied the skinlock to the bite, finishing up by wiping it clean before Peter could take a fresh towel for Rocket. “I frightened him,” said Drax apologetically. “I should have been more careful.”

Peter shook his head. “I’m the dumbfuck who mentioned surgery out loud.”

He was clearing his own blood from his friend’s mouth when they heard Gamora cry out Groot’s name, followed by her hurried footfall. Peter and Drax exchanged a glance, aghast. They had closed themselves into the room to avoid any interference from Groot, whose good intentions could be dangerous in the wrong circumstances, and there hadn’t been time to spare another thought for him. Drax opened the door and rushed out; Peter, torn, hovered in the doorway where he could see what was going on without leaving Rocket’s side.

Gamora was kneeling with Groot’s face held between her hands. He was sitting on the floor, legs spread out to either side of himself, but his head was still about four feet off of the ground, as it had been earlier that day when he was standing at his full height. His arms were too long, and hanging limp at his sides like dead vines instead of the hardwood armor that they should have been. Loose tendrils and snapped-off sticks protruded from every part of his body, making him look shaggy and wild. 

He mumbled at Gamora, who said a few words of reassurance and then looked up at Drax and Peter. “How did this happen? What did he do?”

Drax gave her a quick summary of how Groot had guarded the door while they made their escape, and a hypothesis of how the overexertion might have affected him. Peter could only stare in blank denial. An injured teammate was his own personal hell. Two at once was unbearable.

“I’m sure we can heal him,” said Gamora firmly. “We’ve seen what he can survive. Isn’t that right, Groot?”

“I am...Groot…”

Peter braced himself against the doorframe, his knuckles white where he held it. “Rocket will know what to do,” he offered, though his voice sounded too hoarse to make it credible.

“Rocket,” said Gamora. She stood up, giving Groot’s shoulders one more encouraging rub. “How is he?”

“He’s hurt bad,” Peter let out in a rush, stepping back to let her into the infirmary. “He needs a doctor. Which way are we headed?”

Gamora walked slowly around the table, peering closely at Rocket’s injuries and the automated charts documenting his condition. “Outer spiral arm, but we can refine it before--” she broke off when the circuitry on Rocket’s chest sparked again. “No, no, this is bad, can’t let this malfunction.” 

Her hands flew through the drawers of instruments, taking out a few that Peter was sure he had never even seen before. Something round and metal went over Rocket’s breastbone, something with a digital display and a dial got hooked into it with a thin cable, something else yet had a wire fed through and trimmed by a snipping blade in Gamora’s confident hand.

Peter’s heart felt like it was revving up to bust out of his chest. “What are you doing? Is he going to -- are you sure that’s--”

“I’m sure.” Just seconds later, she lifted the disc off of Rocket and checked the readout on the closest monitor. “It’s okay, Peter. He’s out of immediate danger.”

For a moment Peter could only nod, squeezing her hand to thank her. “This is all my fault,” he said, the words spilling out against his will.

She cast him a long look. “If it is, all you can do is make it right.” There was a mobile device clipped to the main computer which showed the patient’s status, and Gamora took it and fastened it to her belt. “And if it isn’t, that’s all you can do anyway. Our teammates need you, Star-Lord.” She put a special emphasis on his title, and he understood. He didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on his guilt right now.

Drax had helped Groot to his feet and was walking with him, one slow step at a time, toward the infirmary as the tree’s wayward branches draped over his shoulders. Groot let out a soft moan when he saw Rocket’s unconscious form, and everyone rushed to comfort him, saying they were headed to a doctor, Rocket would be fine, Rocket wasn’t in any pain. 

Peter couldn’t tell if he believed them, but he doubted it. He put on his most authoritative voice and said, “Rocket needs to rest now, and so do you, Groot. Drax will get you to your room. Promise me you’ll take it easy, okay? Trust us to take care of Rocket.”

“I am Groot.” His tone was acquiescent, or maybe defeated. Either way, he allowed Drax to lead him away, leaving Peter effectively alone with Gamora.

He ran his hand along the table. “Isn’t this thing supposed to transform into a cot?” Most everything in the infirmary was a new addition, and Gamora understood machines better than he did.

She pressed a few buttons and the table lowered, grew a rail around its edges, and rolled out a cleaner, softer surface beneath Rocket. “I plotted us a course toward the more inhabited systems. It should be easier to find medical services there.” She hesitated, maybe wondering if there was even a doctor in the galaxy who could handle a patient like Rocket. “Are we in danger of pursuit?”

Peter shook his head. “They didn’t have any spaceworthy ships, and they won’t know where we’re going.” He felt a dagger of rage slice through him at the thought of their anonymous attackers, and at Keelah, who had led them there. “Oh shit,” he suddenly realized out loud. “While Keelah was on the ship she put the data pocket into the computer. It could have uploaded a virus, or a tracer.”

To Gamora’s credit, she didn’t take the easy opportunity to berate him for his poor choice of sexual partner. Instead she walked briskly out of the infirmary, and Peter followed, tearing his eyes reluctantly from Rocket and closing the door behind him. Gamora sat down at the nearest computer console and opened one of the holographic monitors, and Peter sat next to her and opened up the mobile controls to help her look. “I don’t see anything amiss,” she said after a moment.

He didn’t, either, but he wasn’t about to trust his own limited hacking skills. “Why would she bother with the upload, anyway? Once she was in the room alone with me, all she had to do was pull out that strangler scarf and get herself away from us.”

“Maybe the map is legitimate,” Gamora theorized. “If you hadn’t taken her inside, you still would have used the data pocket eventually, and it could have led us into a trap as a failsafe to her plan to kill you in the ship.”

“That makes sense. Her friends must have set up the ambush from Knowhere, when they saw she was coming with me.”

“And you have no idea what they want from us?”

Peter sat back and rubbed his aching head. “We thought we were hunting for Thanos’s officers. We didn’t think about them hunting us. And they’re better at it than we are.” 

“No, they aren’t,” she said, hard and certain. “We were outgunned, outnumbered, and taken off guard, and we all survived. Once we take care of Rocket and Groot, we’ll get to the bottom of this, Peter. There will be more combat. And we’ll win.”

He had to admit, hearing her talk like that always helped. “So do you think there was ever a slave ring in the first place, or did they make that up to get our attention?”

She swiped rapidly through another series of screens, the multicolored light gleaming over her disdainful expression. “There’s always a slave ring,” she stated. “But we have nothing to tell us where to find it.”

“I’ll look through what I’ve got on Keelah’s people,” said Peter, rising from his seat. “Try to figure out a destination for us.” 

As he was leaving the room, he noticed that the day-lights throughout the ship had been growing incrementally brighter, heralding the end of the night according to the twenty-four hour cycle he had set it on. He sighed. It was going to be a long day.


	5. Light from the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With two injured teammates to take care of, Peter and the others scrap whatever they were planning and ponder their next step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss me?
> 
> *crickets*
> 
> Jk. I didn't mean to drop it for this long, but I'm low on inspiration and busy like a bee and on top of it I'm currently sick and cranky. But I won't be cranky at you.

Knowhere Central Office picked up on Peter’s third try, testing his already frayed patience. “Thought you were taking this job seriously,” he snapped when Cosmo’s face appeared on the monitor.

 _:Cosmo is beink very busy,:_ the dog replied, his long-distance psionic voice as clear as it had been in person. _:Comrade Quill, signal from you is farther away than expected, have Guardians left Knowhere so soon?:_

“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. Yesterday I met up with three Astrans from Xandar to make a mutually beneficial deal, and they apparently have it in for us. Can you tell me anything about them?”

Before answering in words, Cosmo gave an audible _wuff_ to express his concern. _:You are havink names for Xandarian scoundrels?:_

“Keelah. Marwek. And...one other guy. The girl tried to assassinate me in my own ship, then they led us into a trap on Paragon Eleven-Zero Astral Station. Two of my people are hurt.”

_:Cosmo will investigate. What is theory about new enemies?:_

Peter shrugged regretfully. “Just that someone more important than them paid them a lot of money to take us out. Kind of genius in a way. They were the last people I would have suspected.”

 _:Disloyal behavior, hard to predict. Call Cosmo if you are havink news.:_ The dog’s paw appeared in the screen briefly before the image winked out.

Gamora was coming toward him down the corridor as he switched off the console. “I found a surgeon for Rocket,” she announced as soon as he saw her. 

“Oh thank God,” said Peter, rising and falling into step with her.

“She specializes in cyborg anatomy and she has experience with mammalian patients. I don’t think we’ll find better, so I’ve already altered our course and set an appointment for him.”

Peter agreed wholeheartedly, but she raised a cautionary hand as they walked. “It’s a long way off, and out where we won’t have any favors to call in. And no, she doesn’t do house calls.”

“Even if it’s a matter of life and death?” Peter snapped, feeling a sudden bout of resentment against their newly hired medical professional.

“Frankly, Peter, it isn’t.” They had come to the door of the infirmary, and she stopped before opening it and faced him. “A few more days won’t make a difference to Rocket’s condition, and I know of very few doctors who are willing to leave their own solar systems.”

Peter closed his mouth, unhappy but at a loss for a countering argument. He checked the time. “He’s due to wake up soon.”

“I’ll sit with him. Drax asked if you could bring him the strangle-silk to analyze.”

It took Peter a moment to remember that this had started with Keelah’s floral scarf, which was still in his bunk. He left Gamora with Rocket and headed there. Reluctant to touch the scarf again with his bare hands, he began by knotting the end of it around a rod before untying it from his bedpost. It didn’t move, and it didn’t look or feel like anything but a length of decorative fabric. Nevertheless, he kept it on the rod to carry it into Groot’s room.

Drax looked up and nodded when he entered. Groot was sitting on the bed, which he had now outgrown, though it had accommodated his full recumbent length just yesterday. His limbs sprawled out so far that Peter had to step over a thin branch as soon as he came through the door. Drax was cross-legged on the floor, inserting loose bits of twig and leaf into a portable scanning unit as Groot watched and occasionally handed him another piece.

“Here you go,” said Peter softly, making his way over with careful steps. He held out the rod with the scarf attached. “She must have programmed it to only attack me, but Rocket said Groot rubbed some coating off of it. Maybe that weakened him.”

Drax reached out and accepted the fluttering wand, peering closely at the fabric before maneuvering it under the scanner scope. “Groot has been attempting to retract his limbs,” he told Peter, his eyes still on his work. “It was using more of his energy than seemed to be safe. I advised him to stop.”

Now that Peter was looking for it, one of Groot’s arms was noticeably shorter than the other. It was also evident, under the solar lamps in this bunk, that the color of his bark was off: more grey than brown, and it had an aged, brittle appearance. Peter found himself remembering the old porch behind his house in Missouri. Unable to afford repairs when the wood began to rot, his mother had forbid him from standing on it or touching it. He had learned to pick the splinters out of his own hands so that she wouldn’t know he had disobeyed.

He sat down beside Groot and brushed his hand down his shoulder to the joint where his arm split into several branches. Groot’s eyes followed him silently, full of patient kindness. “Maybe this is typical,” he said around the lump in his throat. “A little time and he’ll pull himself back together.”

Drax didn’t deny it, but he sounded grave. “I have no familiarity with his race or any like it.”

“Neither do I,” Peter admitted, silently resolving to put an end to that as soon as possible. He looked up to address Groot instead. “But don’t worry. Whatever happens, we’ll be here for you, buddy.”

When he returned to the infirmary, Rocket was still asleep, and Gamora had pulled up a chair to his bedside and was scrolling through readouts on a tablet. There was a sheet pulled up to Rocket’s chest, but just outside of it, a flat silver chip rested on his chest, with a light that blinked in sync with the device that Gamora was holding. Peter looked over her shoulder, but could make no sense of the densely packed text and numbers that appeared on the screen.

“What are you getting from that?” he asked.

She brushed a lock of hair back from her face. “Little enough. Many of Rocket’s implants serve the same functions as mine, but the technologies used are completely different. This wasn’t meant to be interpreted by any but the ones who originally devised it.”

“As long as everything’s online,” said Peter. He dragged another chair over and sat beside her. “I was just thinking, we should all get to know each other better. Physically, I mean. There’s gonna be times like this that we need to take care of each other, and since we’re five different species without a lot of countrymen to be found, basic first aid is gonna vary.”

Gamora nodded. “You think like a captain these days,” she remarked.

“Heh. Now I just need to have my captainy thoughts in advance so we can be prepared for shit like--”

A sudden movement from Rocket cut him off. Gamora put her tablet aside and touched him on his one unharmed hand. “Rocket, are you awake? Can you hear me?”

“Nnnngh,” said Rocket, sending a chill down Peter’s spine until he followed it with, “What. Huh. Whazz goin’ on.”

“Hey man,” said Peter, a natural smile coming to his face for the first time that day. “It’s okay. You’re on the ship. You got pretty banged up in the battle, though, so don’t try to sit up or anything.”

As he spoke, Rocket’s eyes fluttered open and focused first on him, then Gamora, then around the room and down at his own body. He tried to sit up.

“You’re infuriating,” Peter sighed, laying a hand on top of the disc on his chest to keep him down. Rocket looked like he was going to bite him again, but stopped when he saw the bandage on Peter’s forearm. His ears twitched uncertainly, and he licked his lips.

Gamora’s fingers drummed along the tablet, and she held it up to show Rocket his own skeleton. Peter knew that it wasn’t a real x-ray, but she had manipulated the image to mirror Rocket’s injuries, which she pointed out for him. “The alloy bonded to your bones makes them virtually unbreakable, but the impact to your joints put them out of alignment. There may be some damage to the cybernetics on that side of your body, too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His voice sounded stronger this time, much more like himself. “Let go a’ me so I can start fixin’ it.”

Peter moved his hand but kept it close enough to thwart any further attempts at rising. “It’s not gonna be that easy, Rock. I know it sucks, but you have to stay put until we can get you to a doctor.”

“I’m not goin’ to any doctor,” said Rocket, as if that put an end to it.

“This is outside of your expertise,” Gamora cautioned him. “I have no doubt you can handle the repairs to your implants, but flesh and blood can’t be fixed the same way.”

“ _I can fix it,_ ” Rocket barked. He pushed himself back, bracing against the pillow until he had gained a little bit of lift for his head, and fumbled around with his good hand until he had managed to tilt the nearest monitor so he could read its display. “Barely got a ding on me and everyone freaks out. The hell is my stuff and Groot?”

Peter tried not to exchange a silent, worried look with Gamora before answering, but apparently neither of them could help it. Before Rocket could read too much into it, Peter hastily touched the intercom and said, “Drax, can you and Groot come into the infirmary?”

It took a painfully long time for Drax to help Groot along for the relatively short distance through the ship, but they all heard him bellow out, “I am Groot!” before he got to them. 

Rocket shouted back, “I’m _fine._ Get in here,” but if the fear in his voice was clear to Peter, Groot must have heard it magnified a hundredfold.

When he reached the bedside, aided by everyone as best as they could manage, Groot didn’t seem to have had any further success in pulling himself together. He smiled anyway, reaching out to Rocket with a long tendril that wasn’t quite a finger. Rocket grabbed it with his free hand, which was quivering visibly, and cried, “You _idiot!_ What’d you think you were doing? You _know_ you can’t push yourself when you’re small! Stupid pile o’ sticks throwin’ yourself away like that, I oughtta--”

“Rocket, _stop_ ,” Peter cut in, unable to keep quiet any longer. Groot was taking the abuse with his usual passive acceptance, which somehow just made it worse. “Groot saved all of us. Again. He pushed himself because we needed him to.”

“Then you’re the idiots,” Rocket said bitterly. “Ain’t right it’s always him takin’ the fall.”

“Not right at all,” Gamora agreed. “How can we help him?”

Rocket’s head fell back down to the pillow. “He needs to take root. Real dirt. Sunlight from an actual sun. It’ll take a few weeks.”

Peter cursed under his breath. He had hoped the cure would be something they could manage on the ship without slowing down. “What kind of star system is that specialist at?” he asked Gamora.

“Specialist--? Quill, I told you I ain’t seein’ a doctor!”

“It has three hours of daylight annually,” said Gamora. “We’ll have to find something on the way.”

Drax, who had been standing a bit behind the crowd around the cot, spoke up. “There are habitable planets along this route, but none where we have any connection. We cannot safely leave Groot while he is healing.”

Rocket’s objections grew louder and fiercer the longer he was ignored. “ _Nobody’s_ leaving Groot! If you guys would shut your flarkin’ face-holes and listen for two seconds you woulda heard me sayin’ I don’t need a krutackin’ doctor!”

“Okay,” said Peter quickly. “I’m listening, Rocket, you’re right.” Drax looked like he was about to take issue with this obvious untruth, so Peter clasped his arm to warn him and continued to address Rocket directly. “One thing at a time. Groot needs sunlight, so we’ll get him some. Gamora?”

“I’ll see what’s nearest,” she said, and stood up to go. Then she paused, turned to Groot, and said, “Would you like to help me choose the right planet?”

“I am Groot,” he affirmed, and she helped him get through the door with her.

Peter knew he had to tread carefully now. They still had to get Rocket to a doctor, but mentioning it again would only upset him further, and if he tried to treat it like a non-issue, Drax wouldn’t understand to play along. “Tell us what you need to work on your implants,” he said to Rocket. “We’ll bring it in here for you.”

Rocket rattled off a list of tools he kept in his room, and Peter sent Drax to get them. It was a deliberate move to allow him a moment alone with Rocket, but once he had it, he wasn’t sure what to say. 

So it was Rocket who spoke first: “You told me not to get into that mech. I shoulda listened.”

Peter had a vague memory of suggesting caution, though he hadn’t expected Rocket to take it as an order even if it had been an order. He shrugged. “You’re not in trouble, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Fat chance,” Rocket replied quickly. “Anyways, it ain’t so bad. I can still work a control panel. Little slower with the one hand. Prob’ly fire a gun, too…”

“Can we please not find out? There’s no combat in our to-do list right now. Your only job is to get better.”

Rocket gave him a steady look, as if Peter was the one laboring under a misconception that needed to be compassionately dispelled. His spoke in a low, soft voice. “I’m not gettin’ better, Peter. This is it.”


	6. Taking Root

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes a hard call to protect his team. Rocket isn't happy about it.

As soon as he had the opportunity, Peter met with Gamora and Drax in the cockpit and silenced all of the intercoms. He didn’t like being secretive, but there was no productive way to talk about their current dilemma around Rocket or Groot.

“We can’t do this one at a time,” he said gravely. “If we all wait planetside for Groot to soak up the sun, Rocket gets worse. If we all stay on course until Rocket’s taken care of, Groot gets worse.”

Gamora looked down, crossed her arms, and spoke the hard truth. “We have to separate them. They won’t be happy.”

“Groot will need a companion to guard him,” said Drax. “I’ll remain at his side until you can return.”

It was the only configuration that would work, Peter realized as soon as Drax volunteered. The Milano would need two experienced pilots to alternate flying the ship and caring for Rocket, and Peter and Gamora were better suited for both of those roles than Drax was. He would be ideal as a stationary tree’s bodyguard, though, and he had evidently come to that conclusion before anyone else had even stopped to think about it.

Peter’s appreciation struggled against a rising sense of dread as he began to grasp that this was really happening. For the first time, his team had to split up, and there would be too much distance between them to easily reunite. 

“Thank you, Drax,” he said sincerely. “And when you get back, you’re learning to pilot the ship.”

“If you wish it. In return, I will teach you to skin and butcher a night-elk.”

Peter nodded, his eyes down and his mind already elsewhere. “I think we better not mention the plan until after we get Groot settled. They won’t make this easy for us. Rocket told me he’s not going to get better. Like he’s not even planning to try.”

Drax made a low rumble of consternation. “Why is he so opposed to seeing a doctor?”

As one, Peter and Gamora turned to face him, her expression matching his own feeling of incredulity. “You’re kidding, right?” Peter said to Drax.

“I don’t kid. You know that.”

“Drax, Rocket was _vivisected_ by people who called themselves doctors,” said Gamora. “I’m sure he hasn’t gone anywhere near a medical facility since.”

“Those were no true healers,” Drax protested, still sounding vexed. “Our friend should know that we would never allow him to come to any harm.” 

Peter wanted to have a quick response to that, but it was too close to what he had been thinking himself. Much as he understood how a former lab experiment could develop a deep-seated phobia for all things surgical, part of him couldn’t help feeling a little hurt, wondering why Rocket couldn’t just trust the team to protect him.

Gamora answered instead, her voice gentle. “He knows. Fear doesn’t listen to reason.”

That seemed to make sense to Drax, who nodded slowly. “Then how will we change his mind?” he asked.

_Good freaking question,_ thought Peter, but all he said aloud was, “Put together whatever you need to get by while you and Groot are on Blossomor. We’ll all come help you move in, and then maybe Rocket will feel okay about leaving Groot in your hands.”

The planet that Gamora had scoped out for Groot’s recovery was sparsely populated and had a healthy balance of weather patterns. It wasn’t far, but Peter had set the Milano to maximum speed anyway, hoping Blossomor would have a station where they could replenish all the fuel they were burning up. Groot’s unchecked new growth had left him stiff and ungainly, to the point where he was having a hard time just changing position, and Peter didn’t think they could afford to delay his recuperative retreat.

Groot was holed up in his bunk now with Rocket, who had spent the day devising supports for his damaged limbs while the rest of the team took turns helping him. Peter had worried that he would hurt himself trying to prove that he didn’t need medical attention, but the braces now adorning his arm and leg appeared surprisingly effective, although to Peter’s eyes they looked more like plate armor than casts.

Rocket was always calmer when he was tinkering, so it would have been a bad idea to stop him anyway. When Peter returned to Groot’s bunk to check up on them, Groot was asleep and the room was lit only by the glow of a holographic screen that Rocket was quietly studying. His eyes flicked to Peter, and he raised his good hand to beckon him over.

“You wanted to know if we were bein’ tracked,” said Rocket in a hushed but even tone. He pointed at the screen. “We are.”

Peter muttered a curse. “Gamora and I couldn’t find anything when we looked.”

“Yeah, big surprise.”

“Can you cut us loose?”

“Sure, if you wanna blow our only shot at gettin’ these guys.”

Peter frowned. “You want to turn it around on them? That’s seriously risky, Rock.”

Rocket shook his head. “No it ain’t. They don’t got the firepower to take us on, and if they get it, they can’t sneak up on us. Long as we keep movin’ all they can do is tag along.”

The light of the display pulsed gently. The tracer that Rocket had found was coded, but Peter thought he could see the disruption in the system’s pattern that had given it away. “Then what’s their plan?” he whispered. “They don’t even know where they’re following us to.”

“Prob’ly thinkin’ we’ll park on some out-of-the-way planet where they can get us on the ground again. Wait ‘til we get comfy, catch us away from the ship.”

“Good plan, seeing as we’re parking on an out-of-the-way planet in another ten hours.”

“Yeah.” Rocket looked over at Groot, a weirdly illuminated twisted wooden mass in the corner. “You’re gonna have to get off Blossomor soon as you drop me an’ Groot there. Try to lead ‘em on a goose chase until you can pick us up again to help out.”

Peter stared, wordless. Rocket was still speaking in a casual, muted voice, making plans that didn’t account for his own injuries at all. It was as if the possibility of going to a doctor had never even come up. Peter couldn’t talk around the truth any longer. “Rocket. If you don’t get medical attention, you could end up in constant pain. Or paralyzed for life.”

He was prepared for paroxysms, but Rocket simply turned his gaze back to the screen and answered, “I know.”

Peter rubbed his temples, at a loss. “Then…”

“It ain’t worth it.” Rocket sighed and blinked hard, as if to clear his vision. “Look, I know you’re thinkin’ about me flippin’ my lid back on Terra. I don’t blame you. But it’s different this time, Pete. I’m wide awake, and I thought about it good and hard, and I’m tellin’ you it ain’t worth it.”

“One day of surgery against your whole life isn’t worth it?” Peter took a breath to slow himself down. He didn’t want to wake up Groot, and he especially didn’t want to get into a shouting match with Rocket. “I get how hard this is for you. I’d never ask you to do it if there was any other way. But it’s not going to be anything like what you’ve been through before, I swear. You can sleep through the whole thing, and I’ll be right there to make sure you’re okay. Gamora, too.”

Rocket’s ears flicked back and forth, a movement Peter had come to recognize as a sign of frustration. “You _don’t_ get it. You think it’s all about pain. Truth is, times I slept through it ended up bein’ just as bad. Worse.”

There was a silence. In the corner, Groot rustled softly in his sleep. “Do you want to talk about it?” Peter asked. 

“No,” said Rocket. It was the only way he ever answered that question, although half the time, he would start talking anyway after a few minutes. It had developed into something of a ritual, and as Peter got better at reading him, he was learning to anticipate when no really meant no.

This time, Rocket’s tone and posture showed that it did. “You wanna get lost a little while, Quill?” he added, confirming it.

“Fine,” sighed Peter, standing. Before he opened the door, he paused and took another look at Rocket, who was poised in front of his screen exactly as he had been when Peter came in. Months of living together had built up a lot of tolerance among the team for each other’s quirks, but moments like this still gave Peter a feeling of rejection. “You know what, you’re right,” he said. “This is different than what happened on Terra. This is about your life, and if you say you’ve thought about what it means to be crippled forever, I believe you. I just wish you’d think about what it means for the rest of us.”

Without giving Rocket a chance to respond, he left the bunk and shut the door behind him so he could slump against the wall while nobody was there to see. He could put up a good front for as long as he needed to, but there was no clear way out of this mess and he knew it would be taking a toll on him.

They reached Blossomor ahead of schedule, though, and everyone put aside their doubts and arguments for Groot’s sake. It had been evening on the ship, but it was early morning on the cliff where the Milano touched down, and a cold mist greeted them as they stepped outside in single file. Peter sniffed the air, appreciating its clean fragrance, and saw that everyone else was doing the same thing. It seemed they had chosen the right place.

Gamora went ahead to scout, vanishing easily into the meadow before them through a combination of stealthy habits and natural camouflage. There was a dirt road, marked by the occasional wooden sign, but not much else indicating sentient life. The trees were more frequent as they got farther away from the cliff, and most were tall and strong.

Groot noticed and went for them right away, but his feet didn’t seem to be cooperating. Peter came closer and realized that each step he took was tearing up the ground, involuntarily sending down roots that made it difficult to detach from the earth. “Hey now,” said Peter, rushing to his side. “Let’s get away from the road a little before you pick a spot. Come on, bro, almost there, just keep moving.” Drax came up on his other side, and with one of them under each of Groot’s arm-branches, they managed to spread out his weight enough to keep him from planting himself where he stood.

Thanks to their dragging pace, Rocket almost managed to keep up. His braces were cleverly constructed to move with his body like robotic limbs, so he could walk upright without actually putting any pressure on his right leg. He had a pronounced limp and certainly couldn’t hurry, but every time Peter looked over his shoulder to check on him, he rolled his eyes and said he was fine.

When Groot came to a sudden halt and dug in both feet, Peter was afraid he had lost control, but then he realized that they were standing in a level, sunny space that made a perfect home for a tree. Drax nodded in satisfaction and went back to the ship for his supplies, while Rocket caught up with them and Peter called out for Gamora. 

“I am Groot,” said Groot when they had all gathered around him. He smiled, giving Peter the thought that the language barrier had stopped mattering a long time ago. 

Gamora laid a hand flat on his bark and assured him they’d be back soon, and Peter did the same. Behind him, he heard Rocket say, “Well, I guess this is goodbye.”

Peter flinched, sensing even before he turned around that Rocket wasn’t talking to Groot. Naively, he had hoped that Rocket’s mind would change before they got to this point. “Not for us,” he said gently. “Drax is staying with him. The rest of us are going back to the ship.”

“You need not fear for Groot,” added Drax.

“I won’t have to. I’m stayin’ right here.”

Gamora cast Peter an anxious look, and he tried again: “We don’t have time for this, Rocket. You said yourself, if we leave the ship parked here too long, the tracer will give away Groot’s location.”

Rocket bared his teeth. “So _go._ ”

“We’re not leaving without you,” said Peter.

“We _can’t_ leave without you,” Gamora insisted. “You’re the only one who can monitor the tracer. Don’t leave us vulnerable, Rocket.”

That seemed to make an impression. Rocket hesitated briefly, then looked at Groot and shook his head. “You can manage. Right Groot? They can manage.”

Groot tilted his head up, closed his eyes, and pressed his arms close to his body. Peter blinked. Everything humanoid seemed to be gone from the tree in front of him, aside from a suggestion of shoulders and a jutting chin. Even his face had smoothed into a featureless surface. If Peter hadn’t been looking straight at Groot when it happened, he didn’t think he would have even recognized him.

“Hey, moron,” said Rocket, “I’m talkin’ to you. I gotta stay here, right?”

There was a groaning sound from deep within the tree, and Rocket’s face fell. “Whaddaya mean?” He reached out and feebly scratched the burl that had been Groot’s knee. “Groot? Groot. Not funny. Groot! Talk to me.”

Rocket’s pleading grew more and more desperate, but there was no sound, movement, or further change from Groot. Peter knew better than to interrupt. He wished that there was a way to discuss it directly with Groot, but it was clear enough that the silent treatment was deliberate, and if it hurt this much to watch, it must have been even harder to sustain. 

Finally, Rocket gave up. “Fine,” he snapped, and spat in Groot’s direction. “Who cares.” He turned back toward the ship and started walking at the fastest pace his metal cast would allow. 

“We have to go,” said Peter to the others, alarmed. He held out a hand to Drax and met him in a quick embrace. “Make sure we can reach you, okay? Call us if _anything_ happens. Once Groot can talk we’ll get him and Rocket to-- hold up. Is that really all you’re taking?” The bag that Drax had brought from the ship looked like it was designed for an overnight stay.

“Peter,” Gamora urged. 

He turned to see Rocket was still hobbling away, taking no care to keep his balance and lurching dangerously every few steps. Peter was struck by an instinctive urge to run after him, which paid off when Rocket stumbled just in time to fall against his outstretched arm.

For a moment Peter stayed crouching there, frozen in indecision. He hadn’t meant to block Rocket’s path, but he was supporting his entire weight and couldn’t just let go of him.

Then he realized that Rocket was crying, face buried in Peter’s sleeve and shoulders heaving crookedly with each sob. Slowly, Peter laid a hand on his head and smoothed back the fur, then made up his mind and lifted him up off the ground. 

Before now, he had only ever carried Rocket while he was unconscious, and he knew he had to proceed with utmost caution. He picked him up like he would a child, balanced against his hip instead of cradled in his arms. Rocket’s metal-cased arm and leg stuck out awkwardly, but he nestled into Peter’s chest right away and didn’t struggle. He was still in tears, but the only signs of it were his erratic breath and the occasional very soft gasp.

As he walked to the ship with the living load wrapped in his arms, Peter kept up a constant motion of rubbing Rocket’s neck and behind his ears. He even kissed the top of his head, barely thinking about it. Heartbreak could chase them across the galaxy, but he had the key to the only shelter that Rocket had ever known.


	7. If You Ever Need a Helping Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After successfully stationing Groot and Drax on a safe planet for Groot's recuperation, Peter returns to the problem of what to do with a teammate who needs healing and doesn't want it. It's time to seek out some advice.
> 
> Featuring non-Peter POVs and a guest appearance from another part of the MCU!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the wait, but we're not done yet! Hope you enjoy the chapter.

The cold metal of the operating table was uncomfortable against Rocket’s back, but he couldn’t move his arms or legs to roll over. He managed to twist his head back and forth, saving him from staring at the featureless grey ceiling, but there was nothing else to look at anyway, until the door opened.

“Hiya, pal,” said a familiar voice, and then Peter Quill was standing over him, smiling disarmingly. “Today’s the big day. Ready?”

Rocket tried to answer, to say he wasn’t ready at all, to ask what was going on, but the only sound he could produce was a tiny squeak. He struggled against whatever bonds were holding him onto the table, causing pain to shoot through his injured limbs without making any change to his immobilized state.

“Easy there,” Peter cautioned him. “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt too bad.”

His hands were covered by rubber gloves now, Rocket saw, with a scalpel of some kind in one of them. Worse, there were other humans coming in. Rocket knew their voices, remembered the remarks they made to each other about calibrating the equipment and preparing the subject. One pulled a blinding light over the table, one held up a syringe and flicked the needle.

Rocket focused on Peter alone, trying and failing once more to vocalize any of his frantic thoughts: _You’re not one of them! You’re my friend! Why are you letting this happen?_

“Keep still, Thirteen,” said Peter, and brought his blade down to Rocket’s chest.

The dream ended in a hypnic jerk and Rocket lay there panting for a few moments, feeling damp with sweat. He was in Peter’s bed, where he had fallen asleep after sobbing out Groot’s abandonment, and the bunk was in the deep darkness that meant it was late in the night-cycle. He listened for Peter’s breathing and found it coming slow and even, so he must not have woken him.

He didn’t remember taking his prosthetics off, but he wasn’t wearing them. It had only taken a second for his nocturnal eyes to adjust, so he scanned the floor until he spotted the armor for his arm and leg and slid down from the bed to get them on as best as he could. It was hard to manage quietly, but he only needed them to stay on for as long as it took to get the door open and sneak down the corridor to his own room.

As the hatch slid closed behind him, he heard Peter begin to stir, and for a second he thought about turning back. This wasn’t the first time he had been woken by a nightmare in his captain’s bed, and a few minutes of stroking and sleepy reassurances usually helped out more than he would have ever expected or admitted out loud.

But the dreams had never taken this form before, and it was still too much with him. Solitude was the most comforting option available.

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Peter sat up, rubbing his eyes, and said, “Rocket?” He hadn’t expected an answer, but when he didn’t get one, he turned the light on anyway to make sure.

Rocket was gone, along with his casts. Peter stayed sitting in bed until it was clear that Rocket hadn’t just gotten up to take a piss, then pulled a t-shirt on and left the bunk himself.

The first place he checked was the cabin, but instead of Rocket he found Gamora there, reading from a tablet and sipping something hot. “I heard him returning to his own bunk,” she said before Peter could ask. “I wouldn’t suggest banging on his door to ask if he’s alright, if that’s what you had in mind.”

Peter shook his head wearily and dropped into the chair opposite her. He didn’t think he was going to get back to sleep tonight, so there was no point in going back to bed just to roll around until morning. “So why are you up, anyway?” he asked, then thought about that and added, “Actually, why do you always seem to be up whenever I’m despondently wandering around the ship at night?”

Gamora tapped the screen of her book to turn it off. “I’m always awake at this hour. I need less sleep than you do.”

“Oh.” He wondered why that had never come up before, or if it had and he just hadn’t been paying attention. “Is that because of your enhancements?”

“Partially. Some of it is training. It may even be a racial trait. I never had much of a chance for comparison before I was the only example of a Zenwhoberian.”

She looked and sounded so composed that Peter felt ashamed that he had ever dwelled on his own problems. He considered all of the Guardians his family, but Gamora was the only one who routinely reminded him of one of his actual blood relatives, his mother. It felt weird to acknowledge that, so he tried to push the thought away whenever it occurred to him, but her wisdom and selflessness made the association too strong to ignore. “They trained you to sleep less?”

Before answering, she shot him a querulous look. “No, I trained myself. Being unconscious doesn’t just make you vulnerable, it takes up valuable time.”

Peter tried to imagine spending years on end without having a safe place to come home to, or a decent period of rest. “How did you turn out so...normal?”

“Normal?” she laughed.

“Seriously. I mean, when someone pushes Rocket’s buttons there’s gonna be fireworks and we all know why, but I don’t worry about you like that. How do you keep your past from controlling you?”

She paused, giving the question due consideration. “It’s a matter of conditioning. Thanos didn’t encourage obedience in his Daughters, even to him. He raised us by the principle of competition - if we lost a fight, a contest, any comparison of qualities, we would suffer for it. If we won...well, life was easier. The idea of betraying him didn’t frighten me once I began to believe I could do it.” After a brief pause, she went on in a lower tone: “But my past does control me, Peter. I try to change it when I notice it, but sometimes, the only thing that motivates me is that I can’t bear to lose.”

“Well,” said Peter, deadpan, “you joined the right team. It’s basically impossible for us to ever be on the losing side.”

“Not only that, but I never have to worry about feeling inferior to you.”

They both laughed, and Peter felt his body relax a little. He wanted to keep her talking, though. “So, what was it for Rocket? He wasn’t trained to compete. From what he’s told me, obedience wasn’t really the point, either.”

Gamora reached for her cup and held it meditatively before her lips. “I don’t think Rocket was trained at all. If he was never meant to leave the laboratory, he wouldn’t need to be instilled with any particular behaviors.” She took a slow sip. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t conditioned, though.”

“Conditioned to never trust anyone,” Peter sighed. “Well, that puts us right back where we started. I’m so out of my depth here, Gamora. After Groot convinced him to stick with us, I thought that was the final word, but what if Rocket’s never going to forgive us for making this choice for him?”

“Have you been fighting with him?”

“Not since Blossomor. I don’t know why he’d go hide in his room if he was okay with me, though. I feel like I said something wrong but he’s not gonna tell me what it is.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, then dropped them and looked at her. “Can you talk to him?”

“I can try,” she said reluctantly. “I don’t think he’ll be very receptive.”

She was right, of course. Rocket shared his feelings on his own terms, no exceptions. “This shouldn’t be so hard,” Peter groaned. “I can’t believe I’m starting to wonder if I’m really doing the right thing taking my friend to see a doctor.”

“What would Captain America do?”

Peter looked up sharply. “Captain America?”

Gamora nodded. “You told us that Steve Rogers was a legend of Terra because he always did the right thing. Don’t you look for guidance from your heroes? Like in the tale of _Footloose_?”

“Yeah,” Peter mused. “Yeah! And I don’t have to wonder what he would do. I can call him up and ask him. We gave them those comms for a reason, right?”

“Precisely,” she said, smiling. “I’m sure they’d like to hear from you.”

He didn’t fully share her certainty on that part, but he didn’t need to talk to Tony or Bruce, just Steve. “You’re supreme, ‘Mora. I really never would have thought of that.”

“Thank me by making breakfast.”

“Psh, like I would ever let you do the cooking.” It was a running joke that Gamora couldn’t cook, except that it wasn’t a joke. Gamora really couldn’t cook.

Of course, Peter wasn’t exactly a master chef either. Of their crew, the best was indisputably Drax, who was gone, followed by Rocket, who probably wouldn’t want to try it in his condition. Peter’s temporarily lifted spirits sank back down, but he pushed himself out of his chair to compensate and headed for the kitchen. “Ready to start missing Drax like crazy?” he asked. “Because I’m thinking _waffles._ ”

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

As much as he had attempted to minimize the technological luxuries in his Washington DC apartment, Steve couldn’t in good conscience cut himself out of contact with anyone who might need him. The cell phone and computer that Tony had given him together seemed to cover most bases, but he still sometimes got confused over which one covered which bases. Today, the computer was ringing, and he was fairly certain that only the phone was supposed to do that.

He sat down in front of it and saw that the repeated digital tone was accompanied by an image enclosing the words “Avengers Tower.” Tentatively he moved the mouse and clicked the message.

Tony’s face appeared on the screen at the same time that the ringing was replaced by his voice. “Intergalactic call for you, Cap.”

For a moment, Steve thought he was joking, then remembered that they did have intergalactic correspondents. “The Guardians of the Galaxy? Why is it coming through you?”

“They only gave us that one communicator, and we left it here at the Tower until I can figure out how to replicate it. For now I can patch the call through to your laptop.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Listen, it’s just Quill on the line and he’s asking for you. Get rid of him and I’ll owe you one.”

“Sure,” said Steve. “How do I accept the call?”

Instead of answering, Tony did something with the controls, and disappeared from the monitor. The image went blank for a few seconds, and then Peter Quill was visible with his ship’s interior around him. Even though he had been the one to initiate contact, he looked startled when the call connected, and Steve noted the way he was sitting: pitched forward with his elbows on his knees, twining his fingers together. His expression was equally tense, and his first words were a toneless, “Captain Rogers.”

“Good to see you again, Quill.”

“Yeah, you too.” He hesitated, then chuckled. “I guess I got you off-duty. Sorry. Didn’t really think about you ever needing a break.”

Steve looked down at himself. He was wearing jeans and a Yankees t-shirt, and the part of the room that was behind him looked a little too lived-in to be anything but a bachelor’s apartment. “I get a free evening every once in a blue moon. What’s up? How’s your team?”

 

Quill shifted in his seat. “That’s actually what I wanted to get your advice about. If you don’t mind. Do you...do you remember my buddy Rocket?”

“Cybernetic raccoon who tried to blow up the Avengers a few months back?” Steve replied dryly. “Does ring a bell.”

“Yeah, you haven’t really seen his best side, huh.” Quill frowned. “Maybe you don’t want to talk about him. Feel free to tell me to go to hell.”

“No, it’s alright. Ask me whatever you’d like. I promise I’ll answer as honestly as I can.”

“Okay.” He exhaled. “Well, he got hurt in a skirmish. We can get him fixed up, we’re on our way to a doctor right now, but...you know how he started life in a lab as some douchebag’s biological experiment?”

Steve blinked hard. “No. You wouldn’t tell us anything about his origins.”

Quill smacked his forehead. “Oh shit, that’s right.”

“You want to carry on, or should I try to forget I ever heard you say that?”

“Too late to turn back now. So. Uh. Rocket’s afraid of surgery, like _really_ afraid. He’s been saying this entire time he’d rather be crippled forever than see a doctor. Which is nuts, right? He can barely walk!”

Steve tried his best to picture it. He had only ever seen Rocket once, and it was over a video conference, but he had gone through the footage of his capture in the Avengers Tower with Tony. Just like a real raccoon, he had been quick, sneaky, and audacious, and it was clear that he would be badly affected by anything that hampered his movement. On the other hand, Steve could totally buy him acting “nuts.”

“So he’s refusing treatment?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, but the thing is, I could just overrule him. We don’t usually play that way, but we don’t usually have a reason to, either. They picked me as the leader, and if I make a call, they listen to me. I mean, I don’t have to tell you about getting a team to function when lives are on the line - sometimes you have to make your friends do things they don’t want to do, right?”

Steve nodded, easily calling up too many memories of facing that dilemma in his own career. “So there are lives on the line, then?”

Before answering, Quill seemed to have to mull it over first. “Well, yeah. Without him we’d be down one good fighter. And that’s the best case, but what would actually end up happening is that he’d insist on fighting with us anyway, which would get him dead in a hyperflash.”

“But the injury itself won’t kill him,” Steve stated, making sure he had it straight.

“No.”

“Alright. I think I know the question you’ve got to ask yourself here, and you don’t need to answer it for me, just think about it: how much do you need Rocket?” He paused, letting Quill ruminate, then provided a little more context. “If you can get by without his help, you don’t have to force anything yet. Instead just do your best to keep him from making it worse. Maybe he’ll even come around on his own and ask for medical attention.”

“Doubt it,” said Quill bitterly. “The way this has gone so far, he’s not gonna spontaneously change his mind and start trusting me again.”

In spite of his empathy, Steve found himself responding in a harder tone: “Son, trust is not the problem you’re having here. Rocket told you he didn’t want to be healed, but he isn’t trying to leave your team or your ship, so he knows there’s a place for him with you even if he can’t contribute like he used to. This is the same person who went into hiding not that long ago because he thought you were angry at him? Sounds to me like he’s depending on you more than ever.”

That seemed to make an impression. Quill bowed his head, pensive, then looked up again and said, “So you think I should let it go?”

“That depends. You were right about the hard calls being your job. If Rocket signed on for your cause, he should be ready to sacrifice if there’s something you can’t do without him.”

“Yeah,” Quill said heavily, leaving a space of silence after it. “Do you ever feel like being the leader is a total suckfest?”

“Assuming that word means what I think it does, yes.” Steve considered transitioning into a summary of why they had to do it anyway, but they had already had that talk the first time they had met. If Quill was coming back to him now for more advice, he must have found some value in it beyond the Captain America veneer. “Aside from Rocket, how are you doing? Any word on Thanos?”

This time, the silence was longer. Quill was staring forward, unfocused, but troubled. For a moment, Steve even thought he could detect a current of real fear. Finally, Quill shook his head as if breaking a trance. “I’ll send you an update once we’ve got one. Thanks, Captain Rogers.” He touched his forehead in what might have been a playful half-salute. “Thanks a lot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't time it like this on purpose, but what better way to celebrate July 4th than an interview with Captain America? He's unlikely to show up again, by the way, but he was important enough to the last story that I thought it made sense for Peter to give him a call.
> 
> Happy Independence Day!


	8. Pick a Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Peter turns his focus to the enemy waiting in the wings, Gamora tries to understand what Rocket is going through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this turned out to be another long wait - I was on vacation without regular computer access, and then there was some writer's block and all the usual excuses.

Peter’s preoccupation with Rocket’s condition had already cost him some sleep, a lot of peace of mind, and very nearly his relationship with Rocket. He had done his best to power through it, and he’d been leaning on Gamora, too, but what he realized belatedly was that it had also been taking attention that he should have been putting into his work. After Captain America’s offhand question at the end of their conversation, Peter had come away with just one thought on his mind: they had to get back to the mission.

Rocket and Gamora were both quick to concur and meet him for a Jackass Circle in the Milano’s common area. Nobody made any reference to Rocket’s condition, and Peter sensed that they all shared the same relief at putting it aside for the moment.

When it was plugged into the holographic projector, the data pocket that Keelah had left for Peter displayed an intricate web of visible secrets. After one look at it, Gamora and Rocket agreed that it was a legitimate map and not a composite designed to mask the tracer hidden within. Peter went over it with them and came to the same conclusion, so the next question was where it had been meant to send them.

“It begins with a normal trade route,” said Gamora, pointing it out on the holograph. “Access codes wouldn’t even be necessary in most of these locations, so ships can go through without attracting any attention, then use the codes to disappear through a port that’s only monitored privately. Ronan used the same tactic for his smugglers.”

So far, none of that came as a surprise. “And once we’re off the grid,” said Peter, “I take it we’re at the mercy of whoever controls the private port?”

“Yes,” she replied, “but if the assignment had been authentic, we would have played the part of smugglers ourselves, and most likely would have been waved through.” Gamora studied the glowing pattern. “I don’t see why they would plan an ambush twice. They must have known that if we survived the one on Paragon Astral Station, we wouldn’t let this map lead us into another.”

Rocket spoke up for the first time. “Yeah, so maybe the map wasn’t for us. Remember, them guys we fought at Paragon ain’t the masterminds here. Quill was already supposed to be dead, and they sure as flark didn’t look like they were plannin’ to let the rest of us finish their treasure hunt.”

“Wait,” said Peter, “you think they were just after the ship?”

“Nah, I think whosever pullin’ the strings told ‘em to take the ship and bring us along as cargo.” 

Gamora nodded. “We didn’t see Keelah in the mob that attacked us, did we? So she wasn’t planning to board. She just set it up for her friends to take over.”

As the pieces came together, Peter allowed himself to hope that they could get to the bottom of this. “Then there shouldn’t be a trap waiting. Does this mean we can use the Milano as our Trojan Horse?” He nearly digressed to explain what ‘Trojan Horse’ meant, then stopped himself when he remembered that Drax wasn’t there. It was a sad thought, but he had to admit that if they were going to pose as their enemies, not being there would be the best role for Drax.

“That wouldn’t be wise,” said Gamora. “We don’t know how much contact the two sides still have with each other, and at least one of them still has a tracer on us. But let’s take a look at where the route goes; maybe we can keep a step ahead.”

She zoomed into the starting point at Paragon Station, then moved ahead through the established trade route that she had mentioned until the path veered onto a disreputable planet that Peter knew mostly for its strip clubs. “To see what’s beyond here, we would have to go through this port,” she said, pointing. “Each section of the map is activated as it’s needed. But we do have some names, and the access codes, of course.”

“I been through all those,” Rocket mentioned. “Some of it leads to the usual crime dens and the flarknards in charge of ‘em. One word keeps comin’ up I got nothin’ on, though.”

Peter had been through them all, too. “Phiggre?” he asked.

Both Rocket and Gamora made affirmative sounds. “It’s strange that it’s so prominent when none of us have heard of it,” said Gamora. “Is it a name? A place? A company?”

“I can ask Cosmo,” Peter remembered suddenly. “It’s about time to call him with an update, anyway.”

Rocket looked confused, then pinned his ears back. “Cos-? Wait, the _dog?_ You’ve been holdin’ war meets with _him?_ ”

Peter rolled his eyes. “He’s got access to the entire Knowhere database and he offered us his help. You’re just mad because he chased you that one time.”

“I ain’t gonna shake that paw,” Rocket declared. “Gimme a day and I’ll do the research on Phiggre myself.”

“No,” said Peter, and the affronted expressions it got him from Rocket and Gamora meant he must have sounded fairly severe. “We need Knowhere with us on this. I’m not going to alienate them just because you have a personal beef with their Head of Security. If you’re part of this team you better accept that sometimes it means doing what you don’t want to do.”

He matched Rocket’s angry glower for as long as it took for Rocket to hiss and turn away. His casts wouldn’t let him stalk or hurry like he probably wanted to, but Peter could see his hackles up as he thumped his way out the door.

Gamora crossed her arms and demanded, “What was that?”

Peter didn’t soften his tone to answer her. “The truth. I’m done with sugarcoating. Ever since he got hurt he’s been trying to back out of his responsibilities, even when all I’m asking him to do is take care of himself.”

“So you are making him get the operation,” she said. “I had thought after you talked to Steve Rogers…”

He sighed. “Captain Rogers said that if the Guardians couldn’t go on without Rocket, that justified making this choice for him. Well, we need him. _I_ need him. I don’t like it any better than you do, but trust me. He’ll thank us someday.”

She still looked doubtful, but he ended the conversation there by setting up the console to call Knowhere. Gamora hovered for a moment, then sat down at the table behind him where she could see the video conference without being in its focus.

Cosmo answered the call promptly, appearing on the screen with his tongue lolling out in a canine smile. _:Greetings! Cosmo is beink glad to hear from Guardians. After last talk, Cosmo tries best to fetch news of rascals who attempt assassination on Comrade Quill. Is tricky, but at last success.:_

“You’ve got something?” said Peter, startled. He remembered Cosmo saying he would investigate, but hadn’t pinned any hopes on it. 

The tip of Cosmo’s tail appeared in the frame, wagging back and forth behind him, and he psionically pulled up a bulleted list that floated in a second frame beside his face. Peter scanned it as Cosmo recited the same information: _:Keelah Yttulriok and her two brother, Marwek and Wuul. All siblink born on Xandar to Astran immigrants. Not seen on Knowhere since Guardians’ mission take nosedive. No criminal records.:_

It wasn’t much, but Peter was already ruminating over what it could mean. “No criminal records? Why would Thanos hire someone who didn’t have any experience with this kind of work?” 

_:Comrade Quill is certain Thanos is havink connection here?:_

Peter nodded, then looked at Gamora, who backed him up with a nod of her own. “I can tell,” she said. “If it isn’t him directly in control, we’ll find him in a power struggle somewhere higher up the same ladder.” 

“Cosmo,” said Peter. “Does the word ‘Phiggre’ mean anything to you?” He brought it up on the display, just in case the verbal interpretation devices transformed it differently than the written characters. 

There was a brief pause as Cosmo examined it, and then he said, _:Negative. What is it, Phiggre?:_

“That’s what we want to know. Think you can do some more digging?” 

Cosmo agreed, and they signed off with another mutual assurance that they’d stay in touch with any new information. 

Peter turned to Gamora as the screen winked out. “Well, that’s something, at least.” 

She drummed her fingers on the table, looking pensive. “Once we have the full team back and in fighting condition, we can use the tracer to lure them in and at least find out who we’re dealing with. I just hope we won’t be too late.” 

“Too late for what?” 

Gamora’s eyes were downcast when she answered. “We may not know what it all means yet, but we know people are being hurt. I’m so tired of it, Peter. I don’t want to keep thinking it will go on forever.” 

“Hey,” he said, coming closer. “That’s what we’re here for. Never gonna lose, never gonna quit. I promise you that.” 

She smiled faintly. “I can make promises too.” 

__

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Gamora didn’t find Rocket in his bunk. She checked Peter’s next, but found him instead in Groot’s room. Aside from the low flat bed and a few heat lamps, there really wasn’t anything in there, which made Rocket look pathetic and lonely huddled in the corner of the bed. As usual, he was fiddling with a device, something electronic and handheld, but he voiced a quiet greeting when she came to the door.

She returned it at the same soft volume, thinking about the mysteries of friendship. She was adept at reading people, but unaccustomed to using that skill to help them. Rocket’s uncharacteristic behavior of late added another complication. Maybe Peter was right, and he would be back to his old self once he was healed. This shy, defeated version would be just a memory. 

Rocket didn't seem to object to her presence, so she sat down next to him and laid a hand on his head. “Peter is done speaking with Cosmo,” she said in a normal tone. “We could call Groot.”

“No point. He won’t be able to talk yet.”

Gamora pondered that as her hand fell into a stroking pattern. She had never seen Rocket holding a grudge against Groot while they were apart, but it was hard to know what to expect anymore. Tentatively she inquired, “You know why he didn't want you to stay on Blossomor with him, don't you?”

“‘Cos he’s a dipshit,” Rocket replied, sounding irritated. 

“You’re using Peter’s Terran insults now? On Groot?”

Rocket sighed. “I know, I know. He made me leave so’s I could get patched up by your specialist.”

A silence followed. Gamora still couldn't quite tell what Rocket was feeling, but she kept petting, and Rocket kept allowing it. “What are you doing in here?” she asked after a moment, knowing that he and Peter were seldom verbal about their sleeping arrangements, but hoping their implicit rule about it didn’t apply to her.

Rocket sounded reluctant, but still answered. “I can’t get up my wall.”

Of course. Rocket’s bunk had a hammock instead of a bed, strung too high up for him to reach with his current handicap. “Peter doesn't mind when you stay with him,” she noted, taking care to phrase it neutrally rather than asking if Rocket was avoiding Peter. 

“No,” he said quickly. “This is fine.”

Gamora stopped stroking and just sat there, both of them staring at nothing. She wondered what Peter would say now in her place. He was Rocket’s real confidant, even more, in a way, than Groot was. The two of them had spent untold hours excavating painful memories, and she knew they had both found catharsis in it that they had never been able to get before the team had formed. 

Maybe that what Rocket wanted from her, too. “Do you want to talk about the lab?” she ventured.

“No.”

Somehow, she sensed it was a lie. It didn’t take long for Rocket to start speaking again: “I told you about my friend?”

“Lylla,” said Gamora. That much had been covered in the stories he told to all of the Guardians after leaving Terra.

“Yeah. She used to always obey, do whatever they wanted her to. She thought I should, too, so they’d treat me better like they did her.”

“I suppose you disagreed?”

Rocket released a sad chuckle. “It wasn’t about pride, y’know. Hell, even I thought it worked in theory. Walk in the right direction, get a cookie. Wrong direction, get hurt. No brainer.

“But then they tell me, the right direction’s up the ramp so I could get tied down for a procedure. Ramp, then cookie, then dismemberment. And I decide right there -- not worth it. Never gonna submit to that. Never did.”

Gamora tried to relate, but her own experience with having her body modified was vastly different. She had never hesitated when a new enhancement was proposed. In fact, she had requested most of them herself, eager for the advantages they would provide. “Didn’t they make you go through with the procedures anyway?” she ventured.

“Obviously,” he scoffed. “Thing is, two minutes on the floor bein’ shocked till I went numb was still two minutes of not bein’ on the table. Anyway, eventually they got fed up tryin’ to train me and just skipped that step.”

There was a silence, but it was pregnant. Gamora lifted her hand to pet him again, then sensed it was the wrong time for that and dropped it. “Well, your way did pay off in the end,” she told him instead. “Now that you’re free, nobody can ever try to train you again.”

Rocket’s response came low and foreboding: “Tell that to Quill.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about those GotG revelations at Comic Con? I can't believe I'm already getting Jossed!


	9. Parent or Guardian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the doctor...and more complications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shuffles feet*
> 
> *embarrassed cough*
> 
> GotG2 will be in theaters in just a couple months, and I write slowly, and this story has a lot left to go before I'd call it finished. In the meantime, trailers and news about the sequel have Jossed it through the roof and it looks pretty outdated from every angle. Nevertheless, I thought I would give it a try. 
> 
> If people are interested, I'll push hard to finish before we've all seen the movie that negates it. Heck, if people are interested, I'll keep going after the movie too, clothed in shame. :)
> 
> Missed this fandom. Hello, everyone!

They landed on the medical satellite a day before the operation was scheduled, and Peter took the opportunity to scope out the facility and doctor in person before they had to bring Rocket there. He had never been to this star system before, and he looked around with interest as he set off on foot for the hospital. It was a terraformed moon, with no natives and no great variety in the resident races. Nobody looked askance at Peter, just another humanoid, unless they noticed that he was armed.

Dr. Shanthig’s office was clean and minimalist, and she barely made Peter wait at all before coming out to meet him. She was a willowy woman with rose-pink skin and dark hair pulled back into a neat bun, and she wore a white coat with a surprisingly similar cut to the ones used by doctors on Earth. “Mr. Quill,” she said in a crisp tone, extending her hand.

He shook it absently, not done yet with looking around and trying to imagine what this place would look like through Rocket’s eyes. “Thanks for seeing me,” he said. “There’s a couple things I wanted to talk to you about that I couldn’t from the ship.”

She nodded and showed him into a small private room overlooking the square which he had walked across to get to the office. Natural light was impossible in this place, and it was easy to see how everything had been designed to compensate, but he wished that high income worlds would get over their enthusiasm for glass walls. All this transparency made him feel like he was being watched.

“Why don’t you tell me a bit about my patient?” Dr. Shanthig prompted him, sitting down on one side of the large desk and gesturing at the other side of it.

He turned away from the glass and dropped into his designated seat. “Do you know what a raccoon is?”

She did, which he took as fortuitous. He told her about Rocket’s unique anatomy, how they had met, and what had caused his current injuries, and presently realized that he had been talking for almost an hour. 

The doctor was taking notes and asking questions, but showing little surprise for any of it, let alone disbelief. Peter supposed the story had reached her already in some form, although it hadn’t come with the same sense of awe that it carried on planets closer to Xandar. He couldn’t expect everyone to be as excited to meet the legendary Star-Lord as...well, as Keelah had been. Impatiently he pushed her out of his mind and tried to wrap up his summary of Rocket’s condition and personal issues. “So the main deal is, he’s afraid of...people like you. I can’t just dump him here and come back to pick him up later.”

“No, you certainly can’t,” said Dr. Shanthig. “We’ll need you to be present for the operation, in person.”

“Huh?” Peter asked, assuming he hadn’t heard properly. Doctors always had all kinds of special rules. No way were they going to let him into the operating room without a fight.

“Mr. Quill, artificially uplifted animals aren’t so unheard of as you seem to think. Most don’t survive long, and I don’t believe I’ve ever read about one as self-sufficient as Rocket, but he’s regretfully not the only sentient creature to come out of an underground laboratory.” She paused, letting that sink in, then went on, “It’s only to be expected that he would have deep-set misgivings about medical science. If he trusts you, then you’re a resource we’ll need to tap to help him through any trauma he experiences during this process. He’ll remain conscious through most of it, so your role is especially important.”

Peter was nonplussed. Gamora had found an even better doctor than they’d realized. “So you’ve had, uh, ‘uplifted’ patients before?”

She shook her head. “Not as a primary. A scientist who has managed to create one doesn’t usually go around showing it off, especially to a doctor. Experiments don’t get healed, they get tested and observed.”

“Rocket is _not_ \--” Peter halted and took a deep breath. He had the feeling that the more he found out about Rocket’s standing in the galaxy, the uglier it was going to get. However angry that made him, he couldn’t take it out on Dr. Shanthig. “Aren’t there any who come looking for healing on their own? Without any scientists pulling their strings?”

“No,” she said sadly. “I can only assume that, if they’re out there, they’re as frightened of doctors as your friend is. But more likely, the ones that escape don’t live long enough to take charge of their own well-being.” She paused, then touched the surface of the desk, lighting up a two-dimensional display on it. “Which brings us to another question. Are you Rocket’s guardian?”

“We’re both…” The word was stuck in his head like a bone that he had to dislodge before understanding it in the right context. “Like, parental figure?”

The doctor looked up from the code she was entering on the desk, raising one wry eyebrow. In a few taps, a blank consent form appeared, and she spun it to be right side up for Peter. “Someone is going to have to take care of the paperwork, you know.”

Of course. This was a legal kind of place, they had a legal way of doing things. The Guardians still had mostly-clean records, but Peter wasn’t used to playing within the rules. In his professional experience it was dangerous to leave too much personal information behind, even if it was meant to be concealed from the public. “I told you I can pay. How much extra would it take to make this disappear?”

She fixed him with a steely look. “I won’t be putting my career on the line for your sake, Mr. Quill. There’s no easy way or hard way for this process. There’s only one way.”

Peter took a cursory look at the admittance form and groaned; it was full of text and questions, and it was probably just the first of many. “So I fill this in as Rocket’s, uh, guardian?”

“Unless you think he would rather do it himself.”

“Heh!”

Apparently, that was enough of an answer for her. “Off the record, doing it on his behalf will actually be less complicated. If he boards with you and recognizes your authority as a team leader, there’s no hurdle to you claiming rights over him as a caretaker.”

Peter frowned. “Don’t you even need him to agree to that before it’s official?”

“Well, to be frank...” She trailed off, then flicked her pink fingers in an exasperated gesture. “It’s unfortunate, but technically, there aren’t any universally acknowledged rights for living constructs. Laws vary according to species as well as planetary citizenship, and Rocket has neither. On top of that, the kind of experiments which made him into what he is are illegal, which inserts a loophole into practically every regulation which would otherwise apply here. You could just as easily claim him as your property as your ward.” His distress must have shown plainly on his face, for she finished in an apologetic tone. “I thought you would prefer ‘guardian’ to ‘owner’.”

“Yeah.” It came out as barely a whisper, and he coughed to cover his floundering. He had too many questions, and not the kind that Dr. Shanthig could answer. Did Rocket know that he didn’t have any civil rights? Was it Peter’s place to inform him? “I, uh, I gotta take this form and do it in my ship. I’ll send it back to you when I’m done.”

She permitted it, fortunately. He didn’t want her to see him hesitating over all of the profile information for Rocket that he didn’t know. She probably thought he was a terrible captain already. A terrible guardian. He uploaded the form to a pocket device and confirmed the timing of the appointment for tomorrow. 

“Don’t worry about Rocket,” Dr. Shanthig assured him as he was preparing to leave. “When he leaves here he’ll be as good as new.”

Peter frowned, still lingering at the doorway. “Okay, but...once he’s one hundred percent, isn’t he still going to have these loopholes threatening him? How do I get his legal status changed for good?”

“I’m afraid you would need a lawyer for that. I can find you a few referrals, but first let’s concentrate on restoring your friend to health.” 

For the walk back to the Milano, Peter turned off his comm. He didn’t usually care to avoid interruptions when all he was doing was walking and thinking, but explaining that meeting to Gamora and Rocket was going to take some finesse. 

That word, _guardian_ , was still spinning around in his mind. He could not for the life of him figure out if he felt better or worse about making Rocket go in for surgery.

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Rocket flinched when he heard someone coming into the Milano, then relaxed when he heard Peter’s voice belting out a song from his second mixtape, then flinched again when he remembered where Peter had been. The hours were ticking down. If a meteor didn’t blow them all away in the meantime, Rocket was going in for surgery tomorrow. So far, he had not been successful at keeping himself from hoping for the meteor.

There was no time to hobble back to his bunk from the common room, where he had been researching the “Phiggre” problem on the ship’s main computer console. He supposed it was better to face the music now rather than later, anyway, so he made himself look up and nod in greeting as Peter bounded through the hatch, still humming.

“Good news!” he announced, with a grin that Rocket suspected was just slightly exaggerated. “Your doctor says I can stay with you during the operation. The whole thing, she says. There’s no part where they kick me out and I don’t see what’s going on.”

Rocket had let out a curse and pushed himself violently away from the console before he remembered that he was trying to keep his composure in front of Peter. He steadied himself, taking only a quick glance at Peter’s confused face, and asked, “Do you have to?”

“You don’t want me to be there?” He sounded hurt, which Rocket had to admit was understandable. Nothing ever made Peter feel ashamed, least of all having friends around in a difficult time.

“Just not keen on you seein’ me like that,” Rocket muttered. It was only part of the truth, but it was the part least likely to dig him in any deeper. “I can deal with it, Quill. I’m not gonna smuggle a suicide bomb in there with me.”

“Yeah, and I’m not gonna point and laugh if you’re not at the top of your game, so just work with me a little.” He sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. “I don’t think they’re giving us a choice, anyway. She told me it was important that I stay with you.”

Rocket shivered. This was shaping up to look a lot like his latest nightmare. “A’right,” he said quietly.

Peter didn’t react right away, just kept standing in the middle of the room, concentrating hard on Rocket as if he wasn’t fully visible and audible. “Just…’alright’?” he echoed at length. “You’re not going to debate me into the ground first?”

“No. All I want’s for this to be over with.” Even that much was hard to say, but he hoped Peter could tell that he wasn’t trying to get out of it anymore. He didn’t even want to risk testing the waters again. Any resistance that he put up at this point might lead to the ultimatum, as yet unspoken: get the surgery or leave the Guardians. 

The makers had thought that they had tried everything to get him to comply. Amateurs.

“Yeah,” said Peter, with genuine sympathy. “That’ll be a relief.” He sat down across from Rocket and inserted a stick into the console, which lit up a holographic document, floating in front of him and angled so that Rocket couldn’t see any words on it. “Can you help me fill this out? Just some basic info. It’s okay if you don’t know all of it.”

Rocket answered with a sound just barely on the affirmative side of noncommittal.

“Okay. Let’s see, name, address, species, got that…” He raised his eyes over the form. “How old are you?”

“You want that in stabs-in-the-dark, or how-the-hell-should-I-knows?”

“Best estimate.”

Rocket exhaled in frustration. It was beginning already; people wanted to get inside him and he had to allow it. “At least five.”

Peter frowned, his fingers hovering over the form where he had been about to key in the answer. “I think my translator mucked that up. I got it in Terran years. What measurement were you using?”

Translators really could be tricky things, but Rocket knew there hadn’t been an error this time. “Terran years,” he replied. “I can remember two in the lab and I know I had to be at least a year old before they started with the...y’know, and then after that it was maybe two more years with Groot. And you know the rest, so, five years and change, I guess.”

The silence was going on too long, and Peter still hadn’t entered an age into the form. “What?” Rocket demanded.

“You’re only _five?_ ” Rocket glared, but nodded, and Peter said, “You’ve only known Groot for two years?” Rocket nodded again. Peter was staring at him, his face half obscured by the translucent light of the holograph. His voice dropped to a hush. “You spent more than half of your life in that lab?”

Enough was enough. Rocket answered with teeth bared and a snarl behind his words. “Look, sorry if it skews your data but you asked a flarkin’ question and I’m givin’ you the only flarkin’ answer I -- what are you doing?”

Peter had just closed the incomplete admittance form and was pulling up the camera-comm to dial out. “I’m cancelling your appointment,” he said grimly.


	10. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So that's why Peter decided to cancel the appointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, guys, have you been seeing these trailers? All despair at not finishing this story by my self-imposed deadline aside, I can hardly contain my excitement! I bought my ticket today even though I totally didn't need to yet. It's gonna be so awesome. XD

As soon as Peter had announced he was going to cancel the surgery, Rocket’s face lit up with desperate hope, but of course his immediate response was, “Why?”

Peter couldn’t seem to get his trembling fingers to call up Dr. Shanthig, so he swiveled the console away from himself and laid both clenched fists on the tabletop instead. He wasn’t even sure he could articulate an answer to the question. He had been thinking about Rocket’s escape from Halfworld, how extraordinary it was that a creature born and raised in a laboratory could come so far in such a short time, and how none of the people responsible would have thought it possible, and then suddenly he was so full of rage that he could barely contain it.

“Because,” he said in the most level voice he could manage, “I don’t own you. Because you don’t want to do it. The end.”

“I toldja I was gonna cooperate, I dunno what your problem is now. They got a minimum age or something?”

Peter shook his head, staring at the floor. Beneath the snark, Rocket sounded nervous, probably thinking that he was about to be told that it was too late and he was off the team. Why had it taken so long to see? “That’s not the point. You’re not a kid. You can learn faster than any sentient species in existence, and those fuckers on Halfworld -- they thought they could control you? That they could give nature the finger and make their own slaves?” He heard himself getting louder. Angrier. “They thought you were _disposable?_ ”

Rocket was blinking at him in neutral astonishment. “Quill…”

The hatch opened just as Peter had stood up to start pacing around the room. Gamora set down a shopping bag and looked from him to Rocket with a quizzical expression. “Is everything alright?” she asked.

“Thought so a couple minutes ago,” said Rocket.

“No,” Peter snapped. “Everything is not alright. Get ready to launch.”

She took a few rushed steps toward him. “We came all this way!”

“Yeah, and now we’re leaving. I’m sorry guys, this was all my fault, but at least I’m not dragging us in any deeper. We’ll get back to Blossomor ahead of schedule, keep working the job from there.”

Gamora rubbed her forehead in consternation. “Rocket, what did you say to him?”

The raccoon threw his hands up, a movement somewhat hampered by the brace on one of them. “Lady, I got nothin’ on this.”

Peter still couldn’t stop moving, stalking back and forth and clutching his head as if he could hold himself together that way. “You know I used to think if I put one foot wrong Yondu was really gonna let the crew eat me? The kind of shit you can make people believe, just throwing your weight around.” He whirled around to face Gamora. “I had myself convinced, too. What did I say? That the situation justified me deciding for Rocket?”

Her eyes widened, but she nodded. “That we couldn’t go on without him.”

Turning again to look at Rocket, Peter punctuated his words with sharp jabs in the air. “That was _weak_ and it was _selfish_ and I’m sorry. Everything you were going through and all I could think about was how sad I would be if we lost you. Well, I would, and that’s my own damn problem, not yours.”

“But we do need Rocket,” Gamora insisted.

“Yeah, we need _Rocket,_ our friend, our brother, this guy who is who he is and not what someone told him to be. We don’t need 89P13!” All three of them let out a little gasp at the same moment; Peter had never spoken Rocket’s identification code out loud before, and he had even startled himself doing it now. He didn’t slow down to think about that. “I bet they thought they needed you, too. Like they needed chemical samples and, and microscopes and shit to run their godforsaken experiments. Right?”

In other circumstances it would have seemed odd that Rocket hadn’t already started shouting back at him, but he still seemed more bewildered than anything. He nodded warily.

“I don’t know how you did it, man. Half a lifetime before you met someone who didn’t treat you like an object, but somehow you knew you were a real person. They had no right to hurt you. Neither do I.” Peter shook his head, feeling the thunderstorm of emotion roll away to leave him dazed and weary. “It’s not gonna be easy, but we’ll figure out some ways for you to get around. Jetpack, maybe. And you’ll have Groot. Just tell us what you need and don’t go pretending it doesn’t hurt ‘cause you’re too proud or something dumb like that.”

When only silence followed, he realized that everything had been said. He shifted his weight, feeling slightly foolish, and glanced around the room. Gamora was watching him with great interest, but the silence persisted, and he went back to the chair where he had been on the console and managed to key in the call to Dr. Shanthig without fumbling it this time.

The tone rang once, and Rocket said, “I’ll do it.”

There was a second tone, and Peter said, “What?”

Dr. Shanthig’s rose-hued face appeared on the screen, and Rocket said, “I’ll get the operation. My choice. Lemme talk to her.”

“Hello?” said the doctor. “Mr. Quill?”

At a loss, Peter could only say, “Rocket wanted to say something,” and swivel the screen away from himself to face Rocket.

The comm projected a translucent hologram, so he saw the same image reversed, though he knew he was no longer visible from her perspective. “It’s good to meet you, Rocket,” came her smooth voice. “I’m listening.”

It took a long time for him to make any response at all, but Dr. Shanthig seemed to accept that, and waited patiently while he stared at her face in the screen. Then he said, “See you tomorrow,” and switched off the comm.

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Back when the team had formed, Gamora had been quick to set some ground rules for the Milano as their shared living space. She told Quill firmly that she had no intentions of spending all of her time cooking and cleaning up after three males and a tree, and also that she wasn’t going to resign herself to living in squalor if he kept up his old habits. It was a touchy subject for a while, but eventually they all learned to pitch in, and to hire cleaning help whenever possible.

The matter of food was a little more complicated. Throughout most of Gamora’s adult life, she had subsisted on whatever was available to buy or steal, punctuated by royally extravagant feasts that someone else had arranged. It wasn’t always possible for the Guardians to purchase fully prepared meals, especially when they were traveling long distances. Without Drax to cook for them, the remaining team had been eating irregularly and mostly on their own.

Gamora had noticed the isolating effect that these patterns had on them, but it took a few days to realize that she was the one who had to do something about it. It wasn’t about cooking or cleaning. Making the ship feel like a home was her responsibility.

So while Peter was visiting the medical office and Rocket was demanding personal space, she had wandered the city until she found a vendor who sold her three packaged dinners that prepared themselves. The drama she walked into on her return to the ship threw off her plan a little, but as things calmed down, she set up a table and switched on each plate to let it chop, mix, and heat its contents until they turned into a meal. She hunted through the kitchen until she found proper silverware, and even lit a candle, although she wasn’t sure why they had it and had to check first to be sure it wasn’t really a stick of dynamite.

“Are we celebrating something?” asked Peter when he saw the spread.

“Only our friendships,” she replied, already feeling more peaceful. She raised her voice. “Rocket! We’re having dinner!”

An indistinct mumble came from the common room, but Peter said, “It’s okay, he’ll come. He said he wanted to wash up first.” He took a seat, angling his face close to his hot plate to inhale its aroma with an appreciative sigh.

Gamora sat down next to him, balancing her chin on her interlocked fingers. “How did you know what to say?” she inquired. “This morning he was acting like a prisoner on death row, and now he’s saying it’s his own choice to have the procedure.”

Peter shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to change his mind. I just thought about what I was doing and I couldn’t go through with it. You remember what you told me about conditioning?”

Rocket came in then, so she couldn’t answer Peter or hear what else he had to say. She thought she understood where he was going with it, though. Rocket had been conditioned to fear surgical procedures, but beyond that, to associate them with people in power who hurt and controlled him. If Peter had forced this, he -- and Gamora, by extension -- would have undergone a subtle but permanent change in Rocket’s eyes. 

She was glad that at least one of them had figured it out before it was too late, but she wasn’t surprised that it had been Peter. He had his roles on this team just like she did.

She had planned to come up with conversation topics that would keep them all distracted from any serious matters, but Rocket took a few bites of food and then said, “We didn’t get that legal form paper done.”

Peter looked concerned, despite having his mouth so full his cheeks were puffing out. He chewed rapidly and swallowed hard. “I’ll fudge the rest. I can leave out stuff like Halfworld if you want.”

“Don’t matter. Every prison I ever busted outta had it on record I came from Halfworld.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess they would.” Peter fidgeted with his fork, avoiding eye contact, then blurted out, “Do you still not want me to come in with you? Would it help if it was Gamora instead? I won’t get jealous, I swear.”

Gamora frowned. “Why would he want that? Not that I would refuse,” she added hastily.

“I’m not saying he would, just putting it out there. Maybe you guys get sick of looking at my face sometimes, how should I know.”

“This is _quite_ a new side of you. I hope it persists.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter grumbled. “Can we get back to Rocket?”

Rocket’s ears pricked. “My thoughts exactly, ‘cept I was gonna phrase it, ‘shut up, imbeciles’. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with the ugly faces on either a’ you. Pete, gimme your arm.”

“Huh?” said Peter, but Rocket just motioned impatiently at him until he put down his fork and held forth his forearm.

Rocket balanced against the table with his armored side and used his other hand to push back Peter’s shirtsleeve, baring his arm up to the elbow. He inspected it for a few seconds, then found what he was looking for, tapped it with one claw, and sat back in his chair.

Gamora leaned forward, curious, and Peter didn’t seem to understand himself until he put his arm close to the candle’s light and peered closely. “Oh,” he murmured, and Gamora finally saw a pink, roughly triangular bite mark on the skin.

“Okay, but so what?” Peter pushed his sleeve back down and went back to his food. “Not exactly my first. Hey! What if sometimes I went by the code name Scar-Lord? It could be like my dark alter-ego.”

Rocket rolled his eyes. “Trust me, I don’t give a crap about messin’ up your dainty complexion. Only thing is…” He furrowed his brow. “I don’t remember doin’ that.”

Now that he mentioned it, Gamora didn’t remember this, either. It must have happened before she had joined them when they escaped from Paragon Station. Peter confirmed it by replying, “You weren’t really yourself right then.”

“Yeah.” Rocket’s voice had dropped low, and it was easy to see how much this was really troubling him. “I lost it. That’s gonna happen again.”

“You lost it and then you got it back,” said Peter. “That’s gonna happen again too. Let me worry about keeping my fingers.”

“Yeah but you don’t _get_ it,” snapped Rocket, his tension giving way to sudden frustration. “I’m not gonna _remember._ It’s gonna be like I ain’t even _there._ Like...like someone else is at the controls.”

Instead of answering, Peter fell into a silent contemplation, staring at nothing while taking a deep drink from his glass. Rocket scowled at him and stabbed a morsel of food on his plate. Whatever progress they had made might have been about to go downhill, Gamora thought, and she decided it was her turn to contribute. “That’s the reason Peter is going in with you, Rocket. You won’t be able to understand what’s happening to you, but he will.”

Peter nodded vigorously, and Rocket’s hackles went down. He started to speak, stopped to think, and then said, “If they try anything shady, would you maybe, uh, shoot ‘em all for me?”

Gamora’s reflex was to point out how preposterous that request was, but Peter replied with a ready, “Yup!” and she censored herself. Nobody was going to die in the operating room, regardless of the promises Peter decided to make on the fly. If it made Rocket feel better to imagine the Guardians rescuing him in the event that the doctors turned out to be mad scientists in disguise, it was just lucky for everyone that they wouldn’t.

The rest of the evening felt strangely ordinary. Rocket didn’t want to talk about the surgery anymore, but the only thing that kept them all distracted was their need to find the enemies who had caused all this. They each went through all of their respective resources, plugging in the word “Phiggre” everywhere. Sometimes they found references to it, but all were virtually without context, and they didn’t feel any closer to an answer by the end of the night.

Still, it was good to have something useful to do with their time. Rocket and Peter both seemed especially determined to see the mission through, and she thought it might have something to do with needing a target for their vexation over the current situation.

For that matter, so did she. And it wasn’t displacement; Keelah and her cohorts really had been the ones to hurt Rocket and Groot and break up the team. Nothing would be as satisfying as the day the Guardians caught up to them.


	11. What You Can't Predict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No turning back now.

Peter waited to see if Rocket would want to take charge of his admittance to the medical center, but the time was growing near and he still hadn't emerged from Groot's bunk. Squaring his shoulders, Peter rapped on his door, paused, then opened it.

Rocket was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in his usual jumpsuit but without the braces on his arm and leg. He kept his eyes on the floor, showing no reaction to Peter's entrance, but his ears were swiveling back and forth repeatedly as if they couldn't remember where they were supposed to point.

"It's time," said Peter softly.

Rocket nodded, but didn't move. Anything that Peter could think to say or ask was pointless, so he leaned down and picked Rocket up, moving slowly to allow him time to protest if this wasn't what he wanted.

Every time he had carried him before, Peter had noticed how much heavier Rocket was than he looked, but it was unaccountably easier to bear his weight now. He felt limp, but pliable, breathing regularly and with his head resting naturally against Peter's chest.

Gamora was waiting for them at the ship's hatch. Residents here used a kind of hovercar tuned to their road system for ground transportation, and she had taken the precaution of renting one for them the night before and parking it right where they were docked. It wasn't roomy inside, but it was comfortable, and Gamora changed the settings to add an opaque tint to the windows before keying in the address of Dr. Shanthig's office.

Rocket grabbed a handful of Peter's shirt when he tried to put him down on the seat, so he positioned himself to accommodate the other passenger on his lap. Gamora had her eyes on the directional camera, although there wasn't much actual driving to be done after entering the destination into the car's navigation. With no windows to look out of, Peter found himself leaning his head back and absently stroking Rocket, who made no movement aside from the occasional sigh.

The journey was short, and Rocket tensed up when the vehicle stopped. Peter hesitated, not sure how to proceed from here if Rocket didn't want the public to see him being carried, but Gamora opened a panel on the interior wall and removed a built-in device that unfolded into a small wheelchair. Peter had to smile; of course she had reserved a handicapped vehicle. Gamora thought of everything.

None of them had spoken a word since they had left the Milano, and Peter's voice sounded alien in his own ears when he greeted the assistant who admitted them into the building. Standing behind the wheelchair, all he could see of Rocket was the back of his head with his ears in a constant back-and-forth motion again.

"I'll go now," said Gamora, and she bent down to lay her fingertips on Rocket's hand. "Good luck, friend." When she straightened, she had her eye on the doctor's aide, who had thus far been nothing but courteously remote. "I trust you understand that there will be grievous consequences if any harm comes to him," she stated. "Anyone who has given me any cause for retribution has regretted it very soon after."

"Hey now!" Peter scolded, but he had to admit, it was satisfying to see her flaunt her deadly skills, and it was the kind of gesture Rocket would appreciate. "Don't mind her," he said to the rattled young aide. "She's just, you know. Gamora, Daughter of Thanos."

It might have been his imagination, but he thought he heard Rocket chuckle.

They carried on without Gamora, through a network of corridors that made Peter understand why they needed a guide. Dr. Shanthig was waiting in the operating room, along with two other doctors who had apparently received instructions on how to act around Rocket: all of them were sitting in low chairs that put them near his eye level, and all of them introduced themselves looking at him rather than Peter.

"Uh-huh," Rocket mumbled, which was more than Peter had hoped for, and Dr. Shanthig stood up and motioned him to wheel the chair over to the table in the center of the room.

She went over everything, pointing out each tool and explaining how it was used, giving them the numbers on how long each stage should take, warning Rocket about when he should expect to feel pain or go numb. He made no response at any point, but he did seem to be listening, and Peter was fairly sure that this was the right approach. None of his previous surgeries would have included a briefing, that was for sure.

"And as for your role, Mr. Quill," said Dr. Shanthig at last, switching her focus to him. "You'll be sitting here, by Rocket's head. Imagine there's an invisible line over his neck, and don't reach past it. Don't lean past it. Don't put so much as a hair past it. You can speak, quietly, but don't ask us any questions unless you absolutely must. If you have to leave the room for any reason, go to the door and an aide will help you." She crossed her arms, sizing him up. "I'm sure you're the type to think you're above rules, but these are for the safety of-"

"I got it," said Peter, raising both hands. "There's rules and then there's rules."

She nodded, satisfied, then looked down at Rocket. "Are you ready?"

There was no answer, so Peter crouched down next to the wheelchair and confided, "They won't start unless you give us a go-ahead."

"Yeah," said Rocket, though it sounded like he was forcing the word out.

Peter lifted him up, taking care to make it look like he was just giving him a boost, and stayed standing close to the table so it would be less obvious that Rocket had grabbed his hand and wasn't letting go. "Hey Rock. Try to think up some good insults. This is your big chance to say whatever you want with no consequences."

He didn't get a snarky riposte, and he realized they were past the point where jokes would help. That was probably the same point where dignity wasn't such a big deal, though, so Peter started petting him again, and the claws digging into his hand began to loosen.

Dr. Shanthig was holding both of her empty hands out in front of Rocket, which confused Peter until he saw that Rocket's nose was twitching. Only after he had sniffed her thoroughly did she step back to have her surgical mask and gloves put on. Peter moved around the table and into the chair they had brought for him, leaving his hand on Rocket's head. "I'm right here," he murmured, wondering for the first time whether there was anything at all he could say that would really help.

He had been waiting for a debate on how best to get Rocket out of his clothes, but instead, the first thing that Dr. Shanthig did was spray his ears and muzzle from a small bottle. "An anaesthetic," she explained. "It was developed for patients who couldn't take injections for one reason or another." Rocket stared at her for a few seconds, sneezed, then lay down on his back without anyone even requesting it.

Peter shot a look at the doctor, concerned that he was already unsure about what was going on. "Was there a sedative in that?"

"No. Remember he may react to these stimuli in ways you can't predict. We'll be starting now, Quill. No more questions and keep your hands above his neck."

There were no restraints on the table, but one of the other two doctors turned on a hard light generator and manipulated its beam to lift Rocket up on one side and support him as he lay there at a tilt, and there were a few more glowing bands set on his joints that Peter assumed were securing him into his current pose. Like the anaesthetic spray, it was a less invasive way of doing what had to be done, but Peter wasn't sure yet how Rocket would take it. At the moment he had his eyes squeezed shut, and his fur was bristling as if his skin itself was attempting to escape.

Dr. Shanthig selected a sharp-looking instrument and began using it to slice away the jumpsuit, and Rocket's eyes popped open. He snapped his jaws, clearly trying to bite but unable to move enough to reach anything.

"Talk to him," said Dr. Shanthig, in such a commanding tone that it took Peter a second to realize she meant him.

He said the first things that came to mind, textbook words of reassurance, but for some reason they seemed to be working. Rocket's eyes were on him now, and his mouth was closed, though a low whine was vibrating in his throat. Peter rubbed the fur between his ears and repeated that everything was going to be fine.

To his surprise, Rocket answered. "What are you changing?"

Quiet as his voice was, Peter was sure he hadn't misheard him, but he didn't understand, either. "What do you mean?"

"Changing. What will I be?"

Peter thought about conditioning again, the associations that Rocket would have with this kind of procedure, and suddenly the question sounded completely reasonable. "Doc? I think he's-"

"Having a flashback," Dr. Shanthig replied without looking his way. "We won't need you to inform us if something is wrong, Mr. Quill. Enough questions."

He nodded weakly. The doctors had fully removed Rocket's clothing and were starting to shave off patches of his fur, and the last thing they needed was for him to notice. Peter had to keep his attention. He took a deep breath and addressed Rocket directly: "We're not changing anything. You'll be Rocket. You'll be a pain in the ass with a gun fetish. A Guardian of the Galaxy. My best friend."

"Peter?" It sounded uncertain, but hopeful, as if he had just realized who was there.

"Yeah buddy. The one and only. People call me Star-Lord."

The items that the medical team were handling now looked more like a programmer's tools than surgical instruments. Dr. Shanthig adjusted the positions of several surrounding monitors, and of Rocket himself in his glowing supports. His broken arm and leg, both mostly hairless now, were pointed up and toward her, though his head stayed where it was.

Abruptly she spoke to Peter again. "We're turning off his voicebox. He'll still be able to hear you, but he won't respond. I'll let you know when it's back on."

"You got that?" Peter asked Rocket, hoping he didn't feel slighted that the doctor hadn't said it to him. Rocket made a tiny noise that might have been affirmative, and then, as advertised, he lost his voice.

It wasn't hard to think of what to say to him anymore. Inspired by his own tongue-in-cheek identification as Star-Lord, Peter told the entire story of how they had met, saved the galaxy, and formed the team, leaving in his usual embellishments that always made Rocket roll his eyes when the tale came out in a bar. When he finished, he segued right into a memory from his own life with the Ravagers, which he was fairly sure that Rocket had never heard before. It involved a few huge explosions, so maybe it would capture his fancy.

From that point on Peter barely stopped talking at all. He told stories from Earth and jokes from crime dens. He sang songs, whenever he knew all of the words to one that he remembered Rocket liking. He didn't try to get Rocket to communicate any preferences, but he could see that he was listening. If Peter paused while Rocket's eyes were closed, they would snap open and dart around to make sure he was still there, so Peter made a point of laying a hand on his head whenever he wasn't speaking.

The medical team only talked to each other, and Peter couldn't understand what most of it meant any more than he could understand what they were doing with their tools and machines. Once or twice, though, he heard a quiet laugh from them when he reached a punchline - they were listening, too.

"Time for a break," Dr. Shanthig announced.

Peter looked up, startled. The three of them were stepping back and removing gloves and masks, and Rocket was laid on his back with a dark sheet covering him up to his neck. The aide had returned to the room, and the doctors seemed to be handing over monitoring duties to her.

"You should stretch your legs, Mr. Quill," said one of Shanthig's assistants. "Get a cup of coffee, if you're planning to stay through the next part."

It was hard to tell how much time had passed, but Peter did have some aches that he hadn't noticed before, not to mention a dry throat from too much talking. He stood from the chair and rolled his shoulders, and Rocket's eyes followed him up. "What's the next part?"

"He sleeps through it," said the doctor with a smile. "You might wish you could too. Anyway, coffee's this way," he noted before following the other two out the door.

Only Peter and the aide were left, aside from Rocket. "I'll stay here," Peter said to no one in particular, and dropped back into the chair.

Meditatively he rubbed between Rocket's ears, then looked him in the eye. "Are you with me, bro?" he asked softly. "Blink twice if you understand."

Rocket blinked twice. Peter nodded and said, "You okay with blacking out for a little while?"

The two blinks came again, but not as quickly. Peter glanced at the aide, wondering if she could see Rocket's eyes from where she was standing, and if she would be relaying this conversation to the doctors. He brought his gaze back to Rocket. "I'm wide awake," he informed him. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Dr. Shanthig, when she returned, saw that Peter hadn't moved and insisted that he at least walk around the room a little. She sent the aide to bring him a glass of water, watched him drink it, and then enlisted him to give some water to Rocket in a shallow cup. "His voicebox is about to go back online," she explained as Rocket lapped up the drink after a few suspicious sniffs. "I'm going to ask him a few simple questions to test it, but you shouldn't be alarmed if he can't answer, or answers wrong. His mental state may take some time to go back to normal."

Peter nodded, frowning deeply. "If there was a problem, you'd tell me, right?"

She paused, but then said, "Yes. But in that case you must understand it would be even more important that you do whatever I say. Even leaving the room."

He acknowledged that he did, and the doctors pressed a gadget to the back of Rocket's neck until something clicked on the readout screen. Dr. Shanthig took Peter's place in front of him and offered a bare hand for him to smell again. "Can you speak?" she asked.

Rocket's voice was hoarse, but it was his own. "Yeh."

"Good. What's your name?"

"Rah...Rocket Raccoon."

Peter didn't mean to interrupt, but he couldn't hold back a startled laugh. "Nice going, man! I thought you'd never warm up to that. Last names are cool, right?"

Dr. Shanthig gave him the side-eye, but she looked more amused than annoyed. She pointed at Peter. "Yes, and who is this?"

Rocket blew out a long breath. "Star-Lord."

That was unexpected, too. Peter wasn't sure what it said about what was going on in Rocket's head, but when Dr. Shanthig raised an eyebrow at him, he nodded and said, "Right on target."

"Good. Rocket, you'll fall asleep within the next sixty seconds. If you're in any pain, say so now."

Rocket said nothing, and the operation continued. It was much less stressful to sit and watch while Rocket was asleep instead of constantly on the verge of panic, but it was also harder to stay wide awake when he didn't need to keep thinking of ways to distract him. He noticed that his body wasn't just stiff, but clammy, and he realized he must have been tensed up and sweating hard throughout the first phase of the surgery. It was catching up to him now.

The doctors said it was okay to keep petting Rocket's head, though, so at least he had something to do with his hands. He started unconsciously crooning a song from Vol. 1 under his breath, but didn't stop when he caught himself. Nobody would mind.

"Mr. Quill," said Dr. Shanthig, and then more insistently, "Mr. Quill! We need your help."

Peter jerked, clattering his chair. "What? What is it?" The table with Rocket on it was moving slowly away, the equipment around it collapsing into itself neatly. "What are you doing to him?"

"We've already done it," said Dr. Shanthig, but her voice was serene. In fact, she was beaming. "I think he'd prefer to wake up on your ship, don't you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I proofread this chapter after finishing it, I realized that nothing really happens in it, but I thought it was important to describe the surgery with more than a few lines, since everything has been leading up to it. The focus will shift somewhat after this. There's more trouble for our team ahead, but Rocket's gonna be okay. :)


	12. My Sweet Lord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocket is very sleepy and Dr. Shanthig has an unexpected parting gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit shorter than the others but I thought it would be neat to get it posted so quickly after the last one, maybe keep the momentum going.

_Something has changed,_ said a voice in the back of Rocket’s head. _Find out what it is._

Last time, he recalled, it had been his translator, but he was thinking in words now, if hazily, and he knew his name. With that much established, he tried to dismiss his subconscious warning. He was comfortable and didn’t want to open his eyes.

_No. You’ve been sedated. There was a procedure. You have to find out what changed._

There had been a procedure, he remembered now. He had felt this before, blacking out and coming back to himself murky, and it almost always meant that something about him had been artificially altered. Reluctantly he flexed his limbs and tail. All of them were there, and in the usual configuration. He wiggled his fingers and toes, opened his mouth, flicked his ears. Nothing felt wrong.

As his memory gradually returned to him, though, he felt more and more sure that there was some difference he had to find. Humanoid faces in surgical masks flashed through his mind, but all of them were strangers. They hadn’t made him. Why would someone other than the makers try to change him? He had to think, much as he wanted to just forget it and go back to sleep. If the alteration had been mental rather than physical, he had to pinpoint it now before he got used to it and lost whoever he had been before.

_I really want to know you  
Really want to go with you…_

He was under a blanket, and he realized that the reason he didn’t feel scared must be that there was a strong scent of Groot in the air. Groot himself -- or anyone else, for that matter -- wasn’t in the room, but the relief that came with the smell was powerful anyway: it meant that this wasn’t Halfworld. Groot had only come into his life after the lab was gone. 

What else? The fur was missing from parts of his body; that was a clue, but it only reaffirmed that the memories of an operation were real. Groot hadn’t been there. The doctors were strangers. Had they captured him somehow? It seemed unlikely that he would have allowed it to happen otherwise. And why did he still feel so sure that he was safe now?

_Really want to show you, Lord, that it won't take long, my Lord…_

The song had been drifting through his mind since he had awakened. Before that, actually. It was soft and melodic and he had the feeling that he knew it very well, but something was making him connect it specifically to the operation, as if that song itself was the reason that he had endured it. As if someone had been singing it to him, trying to make him feel better.

Now there was another flicker of memory. A Krylorian woman asked his name, and he gave it to her with “Raccoon” at the end, because a friend had coaxed him to embrace his animal origins, and he didn’t care about the animal but he did care about the friend. And then...yes. She had pointed to the singer. The friend. The one who had been worth going through it all again. 

Everything else came back to him all at once. His injury, the Guardians, his entire past between Halfworld and now. Peter had healed him with the same resolute devotion that he had once used to band the team together and save the galaxy. 

Now Rocket understood what had changed. He had undergone an operation and come out of it whole and safe and still himself. That had never happened before; no wonder he felt different.

He didn’t open his eyes. It was okay to sleep.

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

“Welcome aboard,” said Peter as he led Dr. Shanthig up the Milano’s entrance ramp, just as he had done with Keelah back on Knowhere. The thought made him suddenly concerned that Gamora would be dancing naked in the cargo bay, but he knew she was out planetside right now, stocking up on supplies before they launched.

“Charming,” she replied, with an undertone of irony more affectionate than fastidious. Ever since the operation had been declared a success, her mood had seemed as buoyant as his was, and nothing could bring him down right now anyway. He hadn’t expected her to board the ship at all, so the interior wasn’t in its best condition, but she’d said that it was important that she check up on Rocket before they left the star system, and agreed that it was better to come to him than to bring him back to the office.

Rocket was in Groot’s room again, and Dr. Shanthig hummed in approval when she saw that he was still sleeping. “Has he been up at all?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Just for a few minutes. He said everything feels okay. Asked about Groot and when we can leave, and then went back to sleep.” The only thing that had seemed off about his behavior was that he hadn’t insulted anyone or complained about anything, and Peter didn’t think that was worth mentioning. The drugs hadn’t fully worn off, and they weren’t expecting him to act normally until they did.

Dr. Shanthig set down her shoulder bag on the bed, which had plenty of room for it with the small space that Rocket occupied. In the same brisk movements she had used during the operation, she lifted up the thin blanket that Rocket was wearing and studied him critically for a few moments without touching him. Peter dropped his eyes. There was nothing to be embarrassed about, but one of the shaved patches, the one on Rocket’s forearm, had revealed a tattoo that had apparently been there all along: 89P13. It was hard not to wince when he saw it. He wasn’t sure if Rocket knew about it himself yet.

“Very good,” said Dr. Shanthig, dropping the blanket back into place. She took up her satchel again and turned to leave the room.

Peter closed the door behind them as he followed her out. “Wait, that’s it?”

“The rest is just a few points I need to discuss with you.” She looked around the ship, then chose the living area to march into like she owned the place and put her bag on the card table. As she rummaged through it, she kept talking, but there was a barely discernable change in her voice; a little more caution and less satisfaction. “Cyborgs who were modified voluntarily don’t have such a hard time finding surgeon-mechanics, you know.”

“Uh.” Peter furrowed his brow. “Is that a real job title? Isn’t it easier to just say something like, ‘cyborg doctor’?”

She straightened and handed him her business card with a crooked smile. _Altarahd Shanthig_ , it read, _Licensed Surgeon-Mechanic._ “People choose to get cybernetic implants for all kinds of reasons,” she went on. “It’s a thriving field with a lot of resources available for practitioners. But any kind of modification that affects the brain stem is a much different procedure with much different results, and most planetary systems have a blanket ban on that kind of activity. Information on patients like Rocket is hard to come by.”

Peter studied the card and slipped it into his pocket, hoping he would never need it again. “If it’s not supposed to happen in the first place, no one thinks about how to deal when it does.”

“Exactly.” She turned to look into her bag again, and came up holding an unmarked data stick, which she handled as if it were somehow dangerous or fragile. “Any professional with a shred of ethical fiber agrees that the Halfworld Experiments were a travesty, but it can’t be ignored that the research there must have uncovered some knowledge that most of us are desperate to have.”

“Hang on. You know about Halfworld?”

“It’s no secret. It didn’t make galactic news, but it’s still brought up as a cautionary tale at practically every cybernetic health conference.” She took a deep breath and held out the data stick. “Owning this isn’t precisely illegal, but it could mean a world of trouble. For me it was worth it to learn more about mammalian anatomy. For you...well, I’ll let you decide.”

Peter accepted the device, holding it as gingerly as she had, now that he had some idea of what it was. “Thank you,” he said in a hushed tone.

“You're welcome. Needless to say, this is at no additional charge, and you didn't get it here.”

“Understood. Hey, I'm a mammal too. You could, you know, study my anatomy.” He paused. “Okay, I can hardly believe this myself, but that wasn't a line.”

Dr. Shanthig snorted. “I’ll have to take your word on that. You’re not exactly the kind of study subject I’m looking for, though.”

“Good, ‘cause I just remembered I’m not all the way human. Now, if it _had_ been a line…?”

“I’m married with three children. You forgot what species you are?”

“Long story.” 

She shook her head, grinning. “I’m becoming curious about these supposed ‘Guardians of the Galaxy’. Just yesterday I heard about them defeating Ronan the Accuser on Xandar, but I have the feeling it wasn’t from a terribly reliable source.”

So she had been listening to him bragging for Rocket’s entertainment during the operation. He chuckled and agreed, “Not remotely. But to be fair, nobody really knows that much about the Guardians, except that they’re a bunch of misfits. Last of a species, or unknown parentage, or...lab creation…” He twirled the data stick around in his fingers, wondering what it would reveal. “That’s why they need each other so much. None of them have a people, just the team. Listen, all I’m trying to say is, you treated Rocket like you would any other patient. If there’s anything I can do for you in return -- aside from the massive amount of units I’m transferring...”

That was an exaggeration; the bill had been about what he had expected, and worth every penny. Dr. Shanthig knew it, and she smirked in response. “The units will be sufficient. We don’t discriminate at my practice. I’m a half-breed myself.”

Peter did a double take. “You’re not Krylorian?” He had never considered any other possible background for her.

“My mother is Kree. Believe me, I understand what it’s like to not know where you belong.” She raised an eyebrow at the surprise that was apparently still showing on his face. “Let me guess. You thought a Kree-Krylorian would be purple.”

“Well, you know, with the blue, and the pink, and us humans usually have skin color sort of halfway between their parents’...”

“I’m aware. Genetics don’t always work that way.”

He shrugged. “I guess that’s why you’re the doctor and I’m the cosmic adventurer.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling. She really was lovely -- proportionally older than him, sure, but that had never made much difference to him. He couldn’t place the reason that he wasn’t attracted to her. Even if she had taken his flirtations seriously and returned them, he didn’t think he would have followed through. The only thing he could see her as was Rocket’s doctor.

“I should be off,” she said, and went back to her bag once again. “Let’s go over these medications. He won’t have to take them for long, but don’t let him skip any for the next week.” She brought out the pills in three separate containers and gave him the instructions for each one, pointing out the same written on each label so that he couldn’t forget. “And this,” she added, handing him a squeezable bottle of ointment, “will help his fur grow back faster. It should work on his back too, incidentally.”

Peter stared at the text on the bottle, which was innocently advising him to apply as needed and not to eat it. “He doesn’t like being touched on his back,” he protested.

“You’re a smart man, Mr. Quill. You’ll figure it out.”

He sighed as she closed up her satchel and shouldered it again. “Can you at least stop calling me Mister?”

She nodded graciously and extended her hand. “Stay in touch, Star-Lord. If anything goes wrong with Rocket’s recovery I want to hear about it immediately.”

“Will do.” He grasped her hand warmly. “Thanks again. For everything.”

When she had gone, the ship felt a little too quiet. Gamora wasn’t due back for another hour or so. Peter moved around aimlessly, then gravitated to Groot’s room and sat down on the bed by Rocket. He thought about trying the ointment on his back while he was still unconscious, but it felt too much like a trick. He just wanted to be at peace, for once. 

Without really meaning to, he began stroking Rocket’s fur as he had done in the operating room. “Things are gonna get easier,” he crooned under his breath, and believed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs quoted/referenced are "My Sweet Lord" by George Harrison, rumored for Awesome Mix Vol. 2, and "O-O-H Child" by the Five Stairsteps, from Vol. 1.


	13. Phiggre It Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was on that data stick?

Free at last, the Milano blasted off the moment that Gamora was back on board. Peter reviewed Dr. Shanthig’s visit for her, briefly, and then they outlined a plan for their next steps. There had been no sign of hostile vessels sharing their sky, but it was safe to assume that they were still being tracked, so there was probably a battle coming once they picked a spot to stop and prepare for it. Since they were headed to Blossomor next, it could be assumed that was where the action would happen, although Peter didn’t like the idea of bringing their usual trail of destruction to the idyllic planet that had been nursing Groot back to health. They would have to fight carefully, that was all.

After that, the only clear goal was to follow the route that Keelah had uploaded into the ship’s computer. Hopefully they would have learned more by then, but they would go into it blind if they had to. Peter was committed to seeing this through, and he knew the team was with him. After all, the worst that could happen would be certain death at the hands of Thanos’s henchmen.

What would really help would be some kind of information about Phiggre. Peter and Gamora had both immersed themselves so deeply into researching the word that they had taken to muttering it repeatedly or using it as an exclamation. So far it had still come to nothing, but Peter got some satisfaction out of yelling, “Phiggre!” when he stubbed his toe. If anyone got anything out of that lead at this point, he had to admit, it would be Rocket, or possibly Cosmo.

As soon as the agenda was settled, they called up Drax to give him the good news, and he had some to give them in return: Groot was looking healthier every day and almost mobile again. They could see him in the background, leafy top waving gently in the breeze, casting a long shadow over a little hut that hadn’t been there when they left.

“Did you build that?” asked Gamora with a touch of incredulity. Peter didn’t quite believe his eyes either. They had only been gone for about a week, and he knew Drax hadn’t brought any tools with him.

Drax turned to look over his shoulder as if he had forgotten what was there. “Yes,” he stated. “I sleep there.”

“Well, I hope you can bear to part with it,” said Peter. “We’re out of there as soon as Rocket says Groot’s ready.”

“Where is Rocket?” Drax frowned. “You said his operation was declared a success.”

Gamora gave him a stern look. “He still needs rest, and I’d better not see any of you disturbing him when we’re back together. It will be hard enough as it is to keep him on the road to recovery. You know how badly he wants to work this job.”

“Phiggre,” Peter sighed. He hadn’t been tempted to interrupt Rocket’s much-needed sleep so far, but he was anxious to get his friend back, especially since only time would tell if the operation had any long-term side effects. Part of him wondered if Gamora was wrong -- maybe Rocket’s tendency to drive himself into the ground had been replaced by apathy, or his ferocity had been permanently dampened.

He remembered the data pocket that Dr. Shanthig had given him, and wrapped up the conversation with Drax as soon as possible so he could talk to Gamora alone again. Things were looking up, but they couldn’t keep celebrating forever.

They checked on Rocket and found nothing changed, but Peter was careful to turn off any two-way intercoms after they closed his door and returned to the common room. Even then, he couldn’t seem to speak at a normal volume as he relayed Dr. Shanthig’s explanation and handed Gamora the device. He still didn’t know what was on it, and it still scared him.

She turned it over in her fingers, concentrating, though it was unmarked externally. Finally she shook her head and plugged it into the computer, and they both sat back on the couch with identically taut posture.

The monitor lit up, and Gamora looked at its corresponding handheld console. “Video footage,” she said. “Almost two hundred hours of it, but no way to search through the content.”

“Probably stolen before it ever saw an editor. Well, should we start at the beginning?”

She hit play. Peter’s nervous anticipation reached its height as the words HALFWORLD GENETIC RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT appeared on the screen, but before long it dissipated into frustration. The first ten minutes of the video was nothing but diagrams of various animals’ anatomy, with a voiceover describing them in jargon so obscure that Peter understood barely a quarter of what he heard. 

Finally he let out a long sigh and looked at Gamora, who shrugged and said, “Let’s try somewhere in the middle. Two hundred hours, it can’t be just this all the way through.”

He agreed, and they skipped forward at random and saw an entirely different kind of scene: two small monkeys in an outdoor enclosure, pulling levers on a machine that dispensed food when they had solved its puzzle. At first it seemed much more relevant, but then Peter noticed a timestamp in the corner of the screen: this might be Halfworld, but it had been filmed over thirty years ago. 

He pointed that out to Gamora, and she skipped ahead again. Now there was a laboratory, full of ineffable machinery and people in lab coats. Cages lined the walls, but the angle of the camera didn’t show what -- or whom -- was in them. 

“I think we’re getting closer,” Gamora murmured, but then the view zoomed in on the table where the staff was gathered, and centered on the small, furry, frightened face peeking out from between their mechanical tools.

Peter reeled. “Rocket.”

“Are you sure? It might be another--”

“It’s him. Look at his eyes. Jesus, it’s him.”

Neither of them spoke again for a long time. The video was apparently intended for the researchers themselves to study and reference later, for they often looked at the camera, adjusted it, and described what they were doing out loud. While three of them were sealing up an incision in Rocket’s neck, the fourth one in the room explained that the translator was now implanted, and if they were lucky they would hear the subject speak today for the first time.

After that they all backed off a little to leave the focus on Rocket. He was pinned down by wide metal bands, but from what Peter could see of his body, it seemed closer to a natural raccoon than it was now. He couldn’t show much expression, either, although his eyes never stopped moving. One of the researchers stood in front of him holding a bowl and a bottle and asked several times if he wanted food or water, but Rocket just kept blinking and staring.

One of the others, a tall fair-haired man, said, “Let’s try a different kind of stimulus. I was hoping for a clear ‘yes’ or ‘no’, but it might be easier for it to vocalize an involuntary response.” He picked up a narrow sharp tool like a precision knife and began to prick Rocket with the tip, choosing random spots on his back wherever the bands didn’t cover him. Rocket reacted with a squeal of pain each time, and Peter felt Gamora’s hand slide into his. He squeezed it gratefully. He wanted to see if she was taking this any better than he was, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from it for even a second.

Rocket’s next cry came out sounding different, and the humanoids in the lab fell into a hush to listen to him. The audience in the Milano was just as quiet, and Peter heard the next words clearly. “Why...you...do this?”

There was a beat of shocked silence, and then the researchers did something Peter never would have expected: they cheered. All of them. They put their hands in the air, they laughed in delight. Two of them hugged. From their babbling it could be gathered that they were so excited because “the subject” had “formed a complex interrogative phrase” on his first try, but nobody discussed what he had meant or why he had chosen that question. 

“They look like me,” said Peter numbly. Any one of the five researchers now on screen could have passed as a Terran. Had Rocket noted the similarity the first time he and Peter had met? Did he still subconsciously associate them sometimes?

Gamora didn’t answer except for another reassuring touch on his arm. He tried to suggest turning off the video, at least for now, but the words wouldn’t come, and it cut to a new scene.

Rocket was perched on a steel table, unrestrained aside from the web of studs and wires protruding from his back. One of the humans from the last shot, the only woman among them, was standing in front of him with a stack of flashcards. Searching for clues on how much time had passed, Peter noticed for the first time that there was a time stamp in the corner again. Rocket’s guess about his age had been fairly accurate. 

This clip wasn’t as painful to watch, but it forced Peter to think about the experiments in a way that made everything even worse. Rocket was focused on the cards, naming the picture on each one with no hesitation, even though he had surely never seen their real-world counterparts. The woman kept flipping through the seemingly endless stack, looking bored. There was no positive or negative reinforcement involved; Rocket just did what was expected of him as if he didn’t know there was any other option.

Peter already knew enough about what had happened in the Halfworld lab to hope that this was the last of the footage that they had on Rocket, or at least that the rest of it was buried somewhere else within the lengthy video so that the spell would be broken and they could turn it off. When the part with the flashcards blacked out, he held his breath, but instead of a respite it was Rocket in a suspended harness with half of his skin peeled back.

That wasn’t the last one either. They saw Rocket being fed by hand while his own hands were encased in blocks of gel. Rocket working frantically to beat his time on a puzzle that would have taken Peter hours to solve. Rocket unconscious and drooling while an otter on the other table anxiously tried to pull toward him.

“Lylla,” said Peter. Gamora asked how he could tell, and he recalled that Rocket hadn’t had a word for Lylla’s species any more than he had for his own. Peter had understood just based on his description. “It’s weird,” he said slowly, “two kinds of Terran animals, plus all these humans. I mean, I know there’s, what do you call it, parallel evolution? And sometimes species get scattered from their native planet. But still. Is this really a coincidence?”

Thinking about it made him look down, rubbing his temples, for the first time since they’d started watching. When he looked back at the screen, he saw why Gamora hadn’t taken up the discussion. Rocket was standing upright, alone in an unfurnished room. Aside from his lack of clothing and the fresher look of the scars on his back, he had the same appearance that he did now, but he was unsteady, taking his first wobbling steps on two legs. To keep him from dropping to all fours, his handlers had tied his hands behind his neck, so every time he stumbled, he went down face first without being able to break his fall. 

Gamora had a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, as a hook descended from the ceiling like an arcade claw crane and hoisted Rocket back to his feet by the chain linking his hands. He couldn’t even give up and lie still. 

“How long did they make him do this?” she murmured.

An answer came from another voice, making Peter feel like he had just been stabbed in the heart with an icicle: “A couple hours a day, ‘til I got the hang of it.”

Peter and Gamora both jumped to their feet, Gamora fumbling with the remote control, Peter trying to organize the stream of apologies coming out of his lips. Rocket was standing close enough to the couch, blanket over his shoulders, that they would have seen him easily if they hadn’t been so fixated on the footage of his past. His own view of the screen was unobstructed; it was impossible to know how long he had been there. His voice had sounded calmly flat, and there was no sign of rage or even fear in his eyes and ears.

“Shut up,” he said, effectively silencing Peter. “‘Mora, put that down, I’m watchin’.”

Seconds ticked by as all three of them saw the Rocket of the video finally making his way across the room and slumping to his knees. The robotic arm lowered and released him from his cuffs, and a dish of water came through a slot in the wall.

Peter turned to leave. He couldn’t stop Rocket from watching if he wanted to, but he didn’t need to be there gawking at his friend’s suffering. This had been agonizing enough without knowing that Rocket was seeing it too. 

Rocket didn’t say anything, but Gamora caught Peter’s elbow and held him back. “Rocket,” she said gently, “Please understand. We didn’t mean any disrespect. Dr. Shanthig gave the data stick to Peter, and--”

“Shh.” Rocket was still staring at the screen, bathed in its bluish gleam. “Wait! Pause it.”

Gamora hesitated, clearly as confused by the request as Peter was, and Rocket bared his teeth at her. “C’mon! Now you have to go back. Yeah. Little more. There! A’right, now zoom in...higher...and stop.”

He pointed with the arm that had so recently been useless, revealing his code tattoo where the skin peeked out from the blanket. Peter followed with his eyes, and saw the panel high on the wall that Gamora had enlarged and stilled under Rocket’s directives. 

The text on it read plainly: PHIGGRE.


	14. Six Degrees of Separation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exposition. And team feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update before Vol. 2 unless something terribly unexpected happens. I'm so jealous of everyone who's seen it already I cannot even deal.

Rocket felt strangely cold about seeing his past on video. He felt strangely excited about finding a connection between Halfworld and the mission. He felt strangely sympathetic toward Peter and Gamora, both of whom still seemed unable to move or to say anything relevant. Peter had at least managed to stop staring at the screen, now that there was nothing on it but that dumb plaque and its dumb word, but now he was staring at Rocket himself, eyes huge and full of horror.

“Get a grip, Quill,” Rocket growled. “Later we can look at your embarrassin’ baby pictures, settle the score. Right now we got work to do.”

Gamora nodded her agreement. “Do you have any idea what this could mean?”

“Not yet, but I know who to ask.” He scrambled up to the couch, holding his blanket over his shoulders with one hand, and pulled up the nearest console in front of him. After opening the ship’s master controls he set it to display every other spacecraft within a certain range, then zeroed in on the encoded signal he had been tracking since Paragon Eleven-Zero Astral Station. It was still nearby; the mystery ship must have landed on the medical satellite when the Guardians did, and then followed them off of it while staying safely out of the way the entire time. 

Peter was starting to look more confused than distressed, which was a relief. Rocket was used to Peter being confused. “Our stalkers,” he explained impatiently. “I showed you this, ‘member?”

“You’re contacting them? Are we ready for that?”

Rocket’s lips pulled back. Even he couldn’t tell if he was grinning or baring his teeth. His hands kept dancing over the controls, finding all of the enemy ship’s secrets. “Star-Dude, I am ready to chew holes in their freakin’ engines, but hell with makin’ contact.” It was the work of a moment to hack their system; there were barely any decent protections on it. “They wanna follow us home? Fine. They can do it on a leash.”

Gamora looked over his shoulder and instantly understood what Peter hadn’t. A smile ghosted across her face. “You reprogrammed their navigation,” she said. “They won’t be able to get any farther away from us than they are now.”

“Yep.” Rocket gave a fierce laugh. “And the leash gets tighter as we go. If they ain’t ready to land when we do, they better get prepped for a crash.”

“What if they decide to attack when they come into the range for it?” asked Peter.

Rocket shook his head dismissively. “Closer the ship is, more I can screw with it. I’ll disable any weapons they got before we’re near Blossomor.” He waved at the larger screen, which was still framing the word “Phiggre” from the Halfworld lab. “I’m gonna start goin’ through this, see if there’s any other mentions that help. Can prob’ly design a program to search it so’s we don’t need to bother with the whole...” He glanced at the video’s length. “Two hundred hours? Sheesh.”

“Wait,” said Gamora. She was standing close to the screen and looking hard at the still image. “We’re not done with this one yet. Why is that word on the wall? It’s not a decoration.”

“Label or something, right?” said Peter. “There’s a code underneath, are you guys getting anything out of that?”

Instead of inspecting the string of numbers more closely, Gamora zoomed back out, just enough to show a rectangular seam around the plaque. “It looks like this part of the wall opens up. Rocket, do you remember if there were compartments like that in this room?”

He blinked. “Yeah, a lot of the robotics n’ that kinda junk came outta the walls. Never really looked up while I was in there, though.”

Gamora’s speech got faster. “I think this is a brand name. There are entire industries out there that nobody has ever heard of because Thanos won’t allow them to do business with anyone but him. If the robotics in Halfworld came from a distributor that he controls...”

“That means he controls Halfworld,” Peter finished, sounding stunned.

Rocket felt what was left of his fur stand on end. He had spent a good part of his early life trying to understand why the makers were doing what they were doing. Eventually, he had given it up in disgust and thereafter assumed that it was all to satisfy their own curiosity. But if Thanos was behind it...Thanos wasn’t curious. Thanos had reasons.

“Or did,” Gamora noted. “Rocket put Halfworld out of commission when he escaped. Didn’t you?”

“I blew up one lab, not the whole planet,” he answered tersely. He had often wondered if there were other labs there. And if they shared information with each other. And if there was somebody left who was interested in the recapture of one of their experiments...

Peter nudged Rocket’s console toward himself and keyed something in, pulling up a short list of data. “This is all the other ‘Phiggre’ references we found,” he said. “Gamora, does it still make sense if Thanos is connected to all this other stuff?”

“It doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s connected. People who have never heard of him might have an encounter with one of his machines, just like we did. Yes, it still makes sense. The question is, what was he _doing_ with Halfworld?”

Rocket pinned back his ears at her, hit the button to make the video start playing again, and said loudly, “This!” Then he threw the remote control at her for good measure. “Stupid.”

She caught it, of course, but both she and Peter were immediately silenced by seeing Rocket on the screen, still struggling to walk. He heaved a sigh and put it back on pause. “I’m just sayin’. No big mystery here. Manufacturin’ pet monsters is a Thanos kind of trade.”

Gamora sank down on the couch next to him, eyes wide and unfocused. “You’re right,” she said, as if it were a sudden revelation. In another second she was back on her feet and taking over the console, closing out the footage of Halfworld. “You’re right! Genetic experimentation must have been one of his irons in the fire.” As she spoke, she set up a display on the larger holographic screen to illustrate: a small purple image of Thanos, in his chair, with a shape like a halved orange floating below him.

“When he lost the progress his researchers had made on Halfworld, he had his underlings begin collecting more subjects.” The display showed the half-sphere disintegrating, replaced by a handful of unidentified planets with arrows pointing to each one from a common source. “On Knowhere we heard that Ronan had been operating a slave ring. I don’t think that was right, exactly. He employed kidnappers, but the victims...weren’t meant to be sold into servitude.”

Peter swore under his breath. Rocket kept quiet, listening.

“Thanos knows about us.” A little image of the Guardians appeared on the screen. “If not because of Ronan, then because of me. I doubt he wants to bother himself about us yet, but he may have found this a good opportunity to round us up and take us alive before we became any more powerful. Or, for all we know, it was entirely the initiative of whoever he has running this part of his operation.”

“We held the Infinity Stone,” said Peter. “Nobody loves an Infinity Stone like Thanos does. Bet he’s dying to chop us up and look inside to see how it affected us.”

Gamora inclined her head at him, then tapped a few controls again, and a yellow-hued humanoid shape joined them on her display. “But the point is, he wouldn’t have explained any of this to whoever was sent to get us for him. In fact, I’d guess there are at least four more degrees of separation between the enemies we’ve already seen and Thanos himself, and at least three of them don’t even know who they really work for.” She made it visual by putting four outlines in front of the yellow figure. 

“So they would think we were just another score,” Peter ruminated. “The order gets passed down until it reaches the ones we actually met, those Astrans on Knowhere. They use their clean backgrounds to trick us into thinking they’ve got a real job for us--”

“--And your skanky rep to set up Keelah’s kiss-kill-run routine,” Rocket added.

Peter pouted. “I’m not _that_ gullible about women.”

Gamora gave him a flat look. “I seduced you within thirty seconds of meeting you.”

“Okay, but ‘Mora, be fair-- you’re _really_ hot.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to her presentation, removing all images from the screen and replacing them with the Milano. “Keelah’s team is told to kill some of us, disable the others, and steal our ship with us in it. She puts the map and access codes into our system to prepare it for them, and their job is to get us to the next checkpoint, hand us off, and collect their reward.”

“But they failed,” said Peter, “so they sent someone to trail us until they can give it a second go.”

Gamora nodded. “Thanos doesn’t accept failure. Anyone who works for someone who works for someone who works for Thanos doesn’t accept failure. Whoever is in that ship behind us is going to be desperate to get this done before their superiors find out.”

“I like desperate,” Rocket growled. He tried cracking his knuckles, but his right hand was still a little stiff from the surgery, and instead of making a satisfying crunch it just made the blanket slip off of his shoulders.

“Long as they don’t make us kill them before we can talk,” Peter replied, his voice stony.

The little image of the Milano on the screen shrank to a pinpoint, as if vanishing into the distance. Rocket strummed his claws against the console, thinking. “I gotta see what else we got in this video,” he said. “Quit hoggin’ the remote, Gamora.”

She arched an eyebrow at him and tossed him the control in the same way he had done to her a few minutes ago, and he pulled up the data from the lab again, still paused at the bipedal walking lessons where they had left it. For a moment he hesitated. He could just hit play, see what was up next in the story of his life. If his memory had it right, there had been a treat when he first managed to make it across the room on two legs, and then the lessons had stopped, but he was never allowed to go back to all fours again. Maybe he could just watch for a few minutes and find out if he had said anything at that point, or if they had said anything to him.

Instead he skipped back through it to the beginning, long before his own time. There was a lot to go through, but searching for instances of the robotics brand would be a good way to narrow it down, for starters.

In careful movements, Peter sat back down by his side. “Um, Rocket, Gamora and me can go through the footage. You don’t have to do it yourself.”

“Nah, I got this. You can...” He scratched his head, then had to readjust the blanket again when it moved. “Oh, you can call the dog. Bet he’s got some stuff on the Thanos chain of command that maybe backs up what we worked out so far.”

“You still need rest.”

Rocket was already typing out a series of commands that would make the media player collect any image containing the word “Phiggre”, and thinking about how to implement it verbally. “I been awake for twenty minutes. You just spent the last six hours in front of the Halfworld Show. Anyone needs sleep, it’s the two o’ you.”

In a subdued voice, Gamora said to Peter, “Have we really been watching this for that long?”

Peter rolled his head back on the couch and faced Rocket with imploring eyes. “I don’t want you to bottle this up,” he blurted out. “I wasn’t even prepared to see that shit with my own eyes, and it’s giving me the creeps how you’re acting like it...bores you.” 

“Hey, maybe I’m the most interestin’ thing in that room, but I ain’t the most important. Stay focused, clueless leader.”

“Okay, yeah, so I’m clueless, but I _am_ the leader, and I’m not trying to buck the job. I’ve got a responsibility for you guys.”

Rocket sighed heavily and stopped typing. “I don’t wanna talk about it. I know where to find you, a’right?”

“Have some faith,” added Gamora softly. She leaned down and took Peter by the elbow, then guided him out of the room with a firm hand against his back. 

“We’ll get ‘em, Rock,” he said over his shoulder.

“Uh huh,” Rocket replied absently, but the lack of response made him pause and notice that he was already alone. His eyes shot up to the screen again. Hearing Peter talk about how this looked from his own perspective had been unsettling, and Rocket’s dispassionate feelings about the video were beginning to mutate into nervous anticipation. 

He knew it wouldn’t stop there if he nurtured it. _Phiggre,_ he told himself. _Thanos. Mission. Got to solve this. Got to get back to Groot._

The urge passed, and he finished assembling his program. There was no time to worry about his own past.

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Peter hadn’t known he was asleep until the sudden commotion in his bunk jarred him out of it. He remembered his bunk door opening and the familiar soft footfall approaching his bed, and reaching down to help pull Rocket up, thinking, _finally_. It seemed like it had been ages since he had come into his bunk at all. Rocket’s standard routine was to curl up on the pillow that Peter wasn’t using, or somewhere near the foot of the bed, but this time he had burrowed right under the covers and settled close to Peter’s chest.

He had been breathing a little too heavily, and Peter had stroked his head with his knuckles until he calmed down and they both nodded off. But now the raccoon was thrashing, making wild noises that almost had words in them, clawing at the bedding. Peter’s drowsiness left him completely, and so did any sense of self-preservation.

Operating on instinct and the experience from a few prior incidents, he threw an arm and half of his body over Rocket, pinning him down. The words he murmured were less about comfort and more about reminders of who he was, where he was, and who was with him, but they came out in a gentle tone, a voice that would do more for Rocket’s state of mind than any list of factual evidence.

Some combination of factors must have worked, anyway. Rocket had stopped struggling, and seemed to be crying quietly into the mattress. Peter felt a guilty rush of relief that he had made it through this one without getting scratched too badly, and then it was cut short as Rocket caught his hand between his jaws.

Peter tried not to react. It wasn’t like he would blame Rocket for an impulse that hit him as he was coming out of a nightmare, but he _really_ didn’t want to have to deal with an injured hand right now. Not to mention that Rocket would be ashamed about it the next morning, which would mean a lot of yelling and blaming everyone else, because the only way Rocket ever dealt with shame was finding innovative ways to compound it.

Grimly Peter prepared to tough it out, but the pain didn’t come. Rocket still had his hand in his teeth; he just didn’t bite down. After a few seconds, he released it, licked it, and lay still. 

It was a gesture of such natural purity that it didn’t seem necessary to acknowledge it or to say anything. Peter relaxed, found a comfortable way to arrange his arm around Rocket, and went back to sleep, feeling grateful that his friend was a raccoon.


	15. Don't Feed the Trolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes memes with Rocket and has a conversation with Gamora that makes him very uncomfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I said I wouldn't update before I saw the movie (WHICH IS TOMORROW, GUYS, IT'S TOMORROW), but I've had such interesting reviews and conversations on this story lately that my mind stayed here. Expect the unexpected, I guess.

“Paging Rocket Raccoon. Attention, Rocket Raccoon. Quit hiding, bro. I know you took my crispitoes. Come in, Rocket--”

The ship-wide speakers finally started talking back at him. “Get off the intercom, Pete. Cryin’ out loud. I’m in the cockpit.”

Peter jogged up the steps and found Rocket in one of the front seats, fiddling with the secondary controls...and giggling. The crispito bag was on the floor beside him, but when Peter dove for it, he found it empty. He scrunched it into a ball and threw it back down. Rocket was definitely giggling. That was something that always required immediate attention.

“Yeah,” said Rocket, waving a hand at the discarded bag. “There’s no more of them. Can’t stop eatin’ lately, must be some kinda doctor-work side effect.”

“Probably,” Peter agreed. “Here, I brought your meds. You have to start remembering these, man. Unless you want some side effects that are way worse than the munchies.”

“In a minute. Check this out.” He pointed at his screen and snorted a laugh. “That parasite ship we’re reelin in? I’m in their computer. Every time I do _this_ \--” He tapped a quick sequence of cues. “--Every monitor they got does _this._ ” A window popped up showing red text on a black background: CRITICAL FAILURE.

Peter leaned his elbows on the back of the seat. “Just the monitors, though? No actual damage?”

“Yep! And a couple minutes later it gets replaced by this one.” The text in the window now read: SYSTEM TEST ERROR. DISREGARD PREVIOUS MESSAGE.

It was all too easy to imagine the psychological effect that the back-and-forth of the contradicting messages was having on the enemy ship’s occupants. Peter’s lip quirked into a smile. “Okay, that is pretty funny. Can I try?”

Rocket let him type in a brand new message, and he chose, EVEN WORSE FAILURE. The text that was to follow it up in five minutes was, NEVER MIND. 

Before long they were both howling with laughter, trying to outdo each other with ideas for fictitious error messages to display for their now-captive follower. “Bet they’re tearin’ their own machines apart tryin’ to fix ‘em,” Rocket gloated, slapping his knee.

Peter wiped a sleeve across his brow. “We should totally try this on the Avengers next time we’re near Terra.”

“An’ then fly like hell before they catch us at it,” Rocket agreed cheerfully. He reached for the pill bottle without needing another reminder, shook two capsules out, and swallowed them, still grinning. Screwing the lid back on, he picked up the tube that Peter had brought along with the pills. “What’s this?”

“It’s that gunk Dr. Shanthig gave us to help your fur grow back. It’s cool if you love your new look, though, you don’t have to use it.”

Rocket shot him a glare and pulled his arms out of his jumpsuit, leaving him unclothed to the waist. As he smeared the ointment on his patches of bare skin, he kept talking: “These chumps ain’t gonna give us any trouble. Barely any weapons to disable on their ride, and we can flank ‘em when they land in case they come out armed.”

“Great,” said Peter. “One more day and we’ll be there. Drax says he and Groot are ready.”

Rocket finished applying the ointment to his limbs and side and handed the tube back up to Peter, who was about to pocket it when he realized that Rocket had scooted forward in his seat. His entire back, still hairless from old scars, was now exposed. Interpreting the movement correctly was tricky, and important, and Peter couldn’t ask for verbal clarification without risking an argument. He decided to toss the dice, and squirted some gel into his hand to rub across Rocket’s back. 

It was the right choice; Rocket didn’t even flinch. Maybe he was getting more accustomed to touch in general, or maybe Peter had just earned enough of his trust to gain access to that forbidden zone. Rocket’s voice was serious when he next spoke, but what he said had nothing to do with his fur growth. “When we got everyone back together...we’re doin’ this, right, Pete? We’re goin’ into Hell Incorporated?”

“Guns blazing,” Peter assured him. He screwed the lid back onto the tube. “Remember when we took this job? I couldn’t get over how lucky we were to find one that let us do what we do best without breaking any laws _and_ could put cash in our pockets. None of that’s changed, really.”

Rocket sounded skeptical. “Oh yeah? Cash and all?”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe not, but I needed something that would keep you interested.” He said it lightly, determined to keep this conversation from getting too grim, but they both knew that the monetary reward wasn’t the primary motivator for any of the Guardians anymore, and Rocket least of all. “Gonna be straight with you, this whole thing is giving me the heebie jeebies. When we thought they were slavers, I had this nice mental image of us storming a dungeon and smashing the chains off a horde of grateful women...”

“We all know what keeps _you_ interested,” Rocket interjected in a low mutter.

“...But now it’s -- I don’t even know what to call them. Research subject collectors? I thought I’d crossed paths with every kind of organized crime there is, but this, closest I ever got to something like this is--”

“Me,” Rocket finished for him. He was tugging his jumpsuit back over his shoulders, still looking and sounding calm enough. “You call ‘em bio suppliers, by the way.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Okay. So when we meet these ‘suppliers’...”

“I been thinkin’. That map takes us straight into bad planetary neighborhoods, right? Someplace where the cargo gets dropped. Where’s the cargo go from there?”

“If the cargo is experimentation victims? To a lab, right?”

Rocket half-turned in his seat to fix Peter with an intent look. “Then why the middleman? We already saw whose job it is to go find the warm bodies, no point in hirin’ someone else just to get from Point B to Point C. Pete, I think the lab’s where we’re headed in the first place.”

For a simple deduction, it hit Peter with more force than he’d been ready for. He had been worrying about taking his team near people who would try to capture them for biological research; he hadn’t gotten as far as the realization that he would be taking them right into that kind of facility. “Rocket,” he said hurriedly, “you don’t have to--”

With one of his trademark bursts of arboreal agility, Rocket was suddenly balanced on the back of the pilot’s seat, facing Peter and almost at eye level with him. He reached out and grabbed two handfuls of his shirt, hauling him closer to gleaming red eyes, pinned ears, and sharp teeth. “Shut. Your. Face,” Rocket commanded. “And don’t you even think about tellin’ me I don’t have to be part o’ this.” He let go of the shirt and shoved him in the chest with both hands, hard enough that Peter took a stumbling step back. 

It didn’t take him long to conclude he had deserved that, and more. “Shutting face. You’re in this. We all are. Tick tick boom.”

Rocket paused, blinking, and then a toothy smile spread across his face. “That would make a great error message.”

“Good point. It’s my turn to send one. Move over.”

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

A vast array of weapons were arranged neatly on the table, including a few that Peter didn’t even recognize. Gamora had her own collection, and she was now seated in front of them, dismantling a longsword that carried an electric current.

She looked up when Peter entered the room, and raised an eyebrow. “Did you want to help? I got tired of waiting for you.”

“Oh!” he said. “Right. Weapon cleaning day. Let me just put some music on.”

A minute later he was sitting across from her, working on one of his blasters to the soothing sound of his mother’s Awesome Mix Vol. 2. “I’ll do Rocket’s for him,” he told Gamora. “He usually just makes new ones instead of keeping up the old ones. I guess it works out, since he cleans the parts while he’s cannibalizing them, but we don’t have time for that before we land and he’s busy now with programming the ship. Oh man, you have to see what he rigged up to screw with those guys behind us. We were sending them fake error messages -- what?”

She hadn’t said anything, but she had been rubbing a cloth along the same piece of plating for the entire time he was rambling, and she was giving him a searching look. Now she opened her mouth, then closed it again as if deciding not to say what she was thinking. Before he could ask again, she changed her mind back and asked in a rush, “Did you know that Rocket is castrated?”

Peter’s legs instantly crossed themselves under the table. He put down his blaster, feeling he couldn’t trust himself to be holding a weapon at the moment. He had seen Rocket naked, but he would have had to be paying much closer attention to notice anything amiss with his plumbing. “I thought we agreed not to watch any more of the Halfworld video without his permission,” he answered, trying to make it sound casual.

“I haven’t,” said Gamora. “He told me. It came up while we were talking about what might be happening in Thanos’s biological experimentation.” She picked up where she had left off on the longsword.

“He never told me that.” It did make sense. Rocket didn’t have any apparent hormonal urges, and he showed neither curiosity nor embarrassment when it came to anyone else’s sex life. Peter felt a little hurt, though, aside from feeling on edge just because of the nature of this topic. He forced his feet back to the floor. “Usually he tells me things.”

She shrugged, but her voice was sympathetic. “I don’t think he considers it a secret, or anything like that. Maybe he thought you would make too much of it, what with the undue importance you place on your own testes.”

“I do not!” He involuntarily crossed his legs again. “I don’t place...undue...look, they’re just really important, okay? Please can we leave my balls out of this?”

Gamora looked half exasperated, half amused. “I’m just trying to say -- you might see a tragedy here, but for Rocket it’s just who he is. He doesn’t want all the same things that you want.” Her gaze dropped to her sword, and her voice lowered along with it. “Or that I do.”

“Wow, Gamora. I think that’s the closest you’ve ever come to admitting you have a sex drive.”

“Don’t make me hurt you. Not every woman who doesn’t want to sleep with you is--”

He held up his hands. “Hey, hey, I was kidding. I know how it is. Drax thinks I’m gonna get married someday, y’know. I disagree, but I had enough trouble just trying to set up a one night stand. If one of us ever wants more than that...” He finally picked up his blaster and cleaning kit again. “I don’t know. I guess that would mean some changes.”

“I’ve never given it much thought, either.” She hesitated. “But maybe Rocket has.”

Peter frowned. However remote, the possibility of a long-term romantic entanglement was still there for him, or Gamora, or even for Drax. Rocket was never going to form the kind of relationship that might distance him from the Guardians. Like Gamora said, that might be something at the back of his mind: the fear that the team would all go off to start new families of their own and leave him once again alone with Groot. “No wonder he never brought up being snipped,” he said ruefully. 

“Just make sure he knows that it doesn’t matter to you.” She paused to fix him with a serious look. “That might mean never asking him about it, by the way.”

“It does matter to me,” Peter protested. “Everything they did to him matters to me. I mean, sure, maybe we’re better off not having any more testosterone on this ship, but it’s not fair he never had a say in it. And trust me, whatever the species, males do not say yes to that.”

“I understand, but think about it, Peter. He said it was one of the first procedures he went through, so he barely remembers anything before it. It’s just part of who he is.” She sighed. “When he got hurt, we took him to the doctor. When he has nightmares, I don’t know what it is you do for him, but I know it helps. But the worst of what he’s been through is beyond us. You can’t fix the damage when--”

“--When he is the damage.” Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose. The Guardians would never have met if not for their respective traumas. He had to remind himself of that sometimes when faced with his inability to heal them all. And Rocket wouldn’t even exist if not for his trauma. “Doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” she agreed softly.

The tape reached its end with a click, leaving them in relative silence. Peter brought his attention back to his blasters, letting his muscle memory take over the work of clearing each internal crevice so his mind could stay elsewhere. “Rocket’s really bent on taking down this research supply chain. I figured it was just his way of fighting his demons, but I kind of wonder if he doesn’t want what happened to him to happen to anyone else.” He snapped the last piece of the first blaster back in place. “I know, that doesn’t sound like Rocket. It’s only a theory.”

While they had been talking, Gamora had finished cleaning all of her own weapons, and was moving on to one that none of them claimed individually, a large paralysis-bomb launcher. “Who am I to say it doesn’t sound like Rocket? He’s not the raccoon we met on Xandar.”

“Yeah,” said Peter, and all of a sudden felt a smile coming on. “Yeah. He’s gonna be alright.”

The intercom crackled, loudly enough that both of them jumped in their seats. “QUILL!” came Rocket’s angry voice. “Did you move units outta my account? Ya think I wouldn’t notice?”

Peter tapped the button on the table to respond. “I only took what you owed me, dude.”

“I didn’t owe you nothin’!”

“Nice try. See, this is why I manage the money. Over and out!” He switched off the intercom, cutting out Rocket’s furious sputtering.

Gamora looked like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer to the question she was about to ask: “What did he owe you for?”

“Bag of crispitoes.” Peter struck a pose with his newly cleaned blaster. “Nobody steals from Star-Lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's just some of my headcanon for Rocket. I thought this was as good a point as any to work it into the story, although I also feel a bit like it's helping the overall themes come together. And now you know why I write Peter&Rocket but not Peter/Rocket. :)


	16. Surrender, Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good news is you can now make references to Vol. 2 in the comments to your heart's content.
> 
> The bad news is -- no I kid, there is no bad news, everything is Vol. 2 and nothing hurts.

Dawn was breaking on Blossomor as the Milano landed in the same grassy clearing it had the first time they were there. They could still see traces of their former path, the earth that Groot had broken as his feet tried to take root. This time, Rocket led the way, walking briskly with no sign of a limp. Peter and Gamora shared a smile as they followed. 

Peter couldn’t tell who was the first to see whom. The end of a light morning fog evaporated, and they were suddenly facing Drax and Groot, who were heading out from the camp to meet them halfway. Everyone’s pace picked up at the same time, and then Gamora was clasping Drax’s hands, Drax was slapping Peter on the back, Rocket was up on Groot’s shoulder, Groot was stretching an arm out to Gamora and Peter, and Peter was laughing with joy.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Rocket fondly in response to Groot’s greeting. “A’right, fine, I missed you too. Eh? ‘Course I’m better. Didn’t hardly have nothin’ wrong in the first place.” He placed both hands against Groot’s head, looked down at him, and lowered his voice. “You’re okay too. Good.”

Recovering his footing after Drax’s hearty welcome, Peter took a long look at Groot. Rocket was right: he was fully healed and back to the height that towered over all of them. It was the first time since the team had formed that they had seen him like this, and Peter had to pause to let the bittersweet memories wash over him. “Good to see you, bro,” he murmured.

“I am Groot.”

Rocket chuckled, and Gamora looked up with a wide shining grin as if she had understood his meaning too. Then she turned back to Drax and asked, “What’s that smell?”

“Meat cooking,” he answered, as if it were obvious -- which perhaps it should have been, but Peter felt a slight twinge of relief that the savory aroma wasn’t coming from a pyre of surprise attackers that Drax had dispatched in their absence. “It’s good you arrived in time for breakfast.” 

They all began heading toward the camp, and soon spied Drax’s handmade hut, and outside of it, a spit bearing some deer-sized butchered carcass. Peter’s stomach rumbled. He was completely ready to agree that a huge portion of red meat would make a perfect breakfast, but before saying so, he looked up at Rocket and asked, “Do we have time for this?” 

Rocket checked a device he had stashed in his pocket. “Couple hours to kill, yeah.”

As they sat in a circle around the fire, cutting up the meat as best they could manage with the tools and knives available, Peter and Rocket explained the situation with the ship that had been chasing them. They had the exact coordinates of where it would make its forced landing, and it was too small to be holding more than a handful of passengers, so the Guardians had every advantage. “And then we’re gonna shoot ‘em in the face,” Rocket concluded casually.

Drax cackled and shouted, “YES!” so loudly that a few birds took off from the trees above them. 

Gamora cleared her throat. “ _Only_ if they attack us. Right Peter?”

“Right,” he agreed hastily around a mouthful of ribs. “That’s like the entire point of getting the jump on them.”

He had to extract promises from both Rocket and Drax, but in the end they all chose their weapons and walked together to the spot as a team, nobody having much interest in arguments at the moment. Rocket scampered down from Groot’s shoulder and looked back and forth from his handheld device to the sky until everyone spotted a speck among the clouds, growing as it approached.

“Fan out!” Peter commanded, and they formed a loose ring to give the ship a wide berth. He turned his face guard on and drew his blasters. 

During the seconds that the ship was clearly visible, but before it touched the ground, he saw Rocket typing speedy one-handed commands into his controller, which was probably the only thing that saved them from a lethal crash. The ship was smaller than the Milano and capsule-shaped, almost certainly meant for nothing more than interstellar travel.

A cloud of dust arose around its point of contact with the surface. Unable to clearly see his companions through it, Peter listened carefully and heard the clicks of Rocket’s gun expanding, the slice of Gamora’s sword being drawn, the accelerated growth of Groot’s tough carapace, and a eager mutter of anticipation from Drax. A few heartbeats passed. The dust cleared.

Two Astran men staggered out of the ship’s hatch, both of them coughing and holding their hands in the air. Peter waited until they were both looking around themselves and had seen each Guardian before taking a step forward, motioning the others to do the same. He held his blasters in front of him, but not aimed at either of the strangers. Yet.

One of the men laced his fingers behind his head, a pose of absolute surrender that reminded Peter, sickeningly, of the video of Rocket learning to walk. The other, having identified Peter as the team leader, kept his hands up high as he addressed him. “Please. We’re unarmed.”

“Yeah, get used to that feeling. We’ve got some questions for you, punk. Bet you can guess what they are.”

The two men glanced at each other, and the one who had spoken moved his hands behind his head as the other had done. Peter wished he could think of a reason to tell them not to do that. “Who sent you?” he barked. “Get talking, or Drax is gonna get bored.” He gestured with his head to be sure they knew which one was Drax, and grinned beneath his mask to see his friend flip his knives around in his hands.

“Star-Lord,” said the Astran spokesman swiftly, licking his lips. “You are Star-Lord, aren’t you? Please. Let me explain.”

“How did you...?” Peter holstered one of his blasters, freeing his hand to release his mask. “Wait, have we met?”

The man nodded cautiously. “On Knowhere. Not long ago.”

It all came back in a rush. “Shit, Marwek? And, uh, Wuul? Keelah’s brothers?”

Rocket, in position closest to Peter, let out a savage growl. “Ya mean these are the dirtbags who put us on this friggin’ death-job? Say the word, Quill, I’ll take care of this.” He hefted his gun to his shoulder, leaving no doubt about how he intended to take care of it.

“Stand down,” Peter ordered him, and waved to the others to carry over the order to all of them. “Gamora, search them so we can talk.”

“We’re not shooting them?” asked Rocket, sounding genuinely distraught.

Peter shook his head. “They’re surrendering.”

“We’re not shooting them even a _little?_ ” 

“We talked about this, Rocket.” He slipped his other blaster back into its holster, hoping the example would help. “Why don’t you go check out their ship? Drax, go with him. Groot, if these guys try anything, I want them shish kebab’d.” 

That seemed enough to satisfy Rocket, who put up his gun and disappeared through the ship’s hatch, Drax close behind him. Gamora had finished patting the Astrans down and confirmed that they weren’t hiding anything, so they were finally standing normally, with Groot looming nearby. 

Peter crossed his arms and gave them a hard stare, then said, “What did you think was going to happen? This isn’t open mike night. You’re way out of your league.”

“We had no choice--” Marwek began, but Wuul cut in with a hiss. “Don’t tell them!”

Before Peter could point out the flaws in that suggestion, Marwek rounded on Wuul and snapped, “What good will that do? We already failed. Now they’re the only hope.”

Gamora cocked her head at them. “We’re the only hope?”

“This wasn’t the plan,” Marwek explained curtly, ignoring his brother’s heated glare. “You’re right. We’re not cut out for this. I’m an accountant. He’s a dentist. The only thing we were supposed to do was give you the map and get Keelah onto your ship.”

“But?” Gamora prompted.

“But you didn’t follow the map!” he exploded in frustration. “You took detours, you split your team -- and that’s after you all escaped Paragon Station! The only thing we had left to use was the tracer. We thought if we could at least pinpoint your location...”

Peter frowned. “You had dozens of people coming after us on Paragon. Even if it’s accountants and dentists all the way down, how come you’re the only ones still chasing us?”

Rocket and Drax came out of the oblong ship as Marwek was answering. “We were just the only ones with a spaceworthy vehicle.”

“That’s the best you got?” asked Rocket, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the vehicle in question. “Tough break.”

Gamora didn’t leave space for them to answer that. “Why bother following at all? Even if your employer was threatening you, it would have been easy to shift the blame onto the Paragon crew. They’re the ones who failed to kill or capture us.”

“Yeah,” said Peter, “exactly how much was someone offering to pay you for us that would make it worth putting this much work into something you clearly suck at?”

Wuul was the one to respond this time, his voice fierce and sharp. “That has nothing to do with it. Do you even realize what you’re dealing with here? There are _laboratories_ ” -- he spat out the word -- “where experiments are conducted on sentient beings, crimes you can’t imagine, innocent lives destroyed--” His mouth snapped shut abruptly, as if he had said too much.

All of the Guardians now had their eyes locked on him. Peter could see that Rocket’s hackles were raised, and Groot had sprouted a few more spikes that looked like they could have grown into a wooden cage. Peter took advantage of the silence to keep his tone soft and dangerous. “Seems like you just listed a few good reasons to not be working for these guys.”

Neither Marwek or Wuul seemed to want to answer that, but to Peter’s surprise, Drax spoke up for the first time, with one grave question that explained everything: “Who did they take from you?”

A breeze rustled through the trees, including Groot’s sparse leaf adornment. Marwek gave Wuul an apologetic look, then addressed Drax and Peter. “Our mother. Our friends. Keelah’s husband.” He took a breath and peered sideways at Wuul, then dropped the final stone. “His children.”

The anger drained right out of Peter, but sympathy hadn’t yet replaced it, just a kind of twitchy blankness. “So that was the exchange. You deliver the Guardians, they release your people.”

Marwek rubbed his hands over his face, but then met Peter’s eyes fearlessly. “There was no other way, and we had to move fast. You at least would have had a chance. Our families aren’t strong like you are. They could have-- they might already be--”

“Anyone else see where this is goin’?” Rocket cut in. He had collapsed his gun and was leaning on it, ears flicking with annoyance. “Puttin’ us up for sale didn’t work, so now you want us to volunteer instead, right? And you even got the sufferin’ innocents card to play, but it’s still our asses on the line.”

Wuul took a step toward him, hands clenched in fists, before Groot stopped him with a single light touch. “Of _course_ we’re going to ask for your help, weasel. Would you expect us to just give up? You can kill us or strand us here, but at least listen to us first.”

“Oh, sure,” said Rocket, showing his teeth. “Let’s hear a lecture from the dopes who broke Groot and sent their sister to choke Quill.” 

Peter blinked. He wasn’t surprised that Rocket made no mention of his own injuries, but it hadn’t really occurred to him that this was personal on multiple levels. He had practically forgotten Keelah’s assassination attempt himself, but apparently Rocket hadn’t.

Wuul returned Rocket’s glare and spoke in a soft tone that trembled with underlying fury. “So these are the greatest heroes of our galaxy.”

“Peter,” said Gamora. “I think our team needs to confer about this privately.”

Exhaling, Peter paused and then nodded. “You guys stay in your dumb ship until we come for you. Groot, can you keep an eye on them?”

Groot answered with an affirmative rumble and ushered the two Astrans away, and the other four Guardians walked off in the other direction. Peter cast a concerned eye down toward Rocket, but concealed it before Rocket looked up and didn’t speak until he was sure they were out of hearing range. “I understand if you’re still angry at them...”

“I’m not,” Rocket responded easily. They reached Drax’s camp and resumed their places around the cold fire pit, Rocket vaulting up to the top of the stump that made the highest seat. 

Peter took the crate next to the stump. “Kinda sounded like you were ready to kick off a lifelong grudge,” he pointed out.

“I just wanted ‘em to sweat a little. ‘Course we’re gonna go through with the search and rescue, but you can’t let ‘em hustle you.”

“I’m angry at them,” Drax stated from the large rock where he was sitting, elbows on his knees. “They allowed their loved ones to be captured. Such weakness should not be tolerated in a father.”

Gamora gave him a disapproving look. “We don’t know the whole story. You can see they’re trying. But Rocket, do you really mean you’ve already forgiven them?”

 _”Forgive_ them?” Rocket spat. “Why the hell would I do that? We all could be dead thanks to them cowards. All I’m sayin’ is I woulda done the same. ‘Cept I actually woulda done it right and it woulda worked.”

Drax looked perplexed. “You would have sent your sister to have sex with Peter?” 

“No, idiot, I--”

“You don’t have a sister. You would have seduced him yours--?”

Peter cleared his throat as loudly as possible. “I think,” he said, “that Rocket would have done what he had to do if he had family in that kind of trouble. And...I think I would too. I don’t know if that’s the right way. Probably not, to be honest. But, guys, does it even really matter if we understand where Marwek and Wuul are coming from?”

“Yes,” said Gamora instantly. Three inquisitive pairs of eyes turned to her, and she smiled. “It matters, because they’re coming from the supply line that we need to infiltrate if these prisoners are ever going to be freed. And now we have a way in.”


	17. Space, Time, and Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocket's gonna need a few things.

The two ships left Blossomor together, but the Astrans joined the Guardians on the Milano, leaving their own non-combatant ship, the Lotus Leaf, unoccupied for Rocket to control it remotely. There was a shared sense of “but we don’t have to like it”, which was said out loud at least once by almost everyone, but they managed to tolerate each other’s presence as long as they kept their conversations restricted to the mission. Peter made sure that for every meeting with Marwek and Wuul, there was a follow-up that excluded them. Rocket and Gamora were the ones with the most to contribute in terms of knowledge and tactics, and he wanted them to speak it freely, which they wouldn’t do with outsiders around.

“Getaway’s gonna be the tricky part,” said Rocket confidentially to Peter. They had retreated to the cockpit, where Marwek and Wuul were forbidden from entering without express permission. “I think I’m gonna have to set up an installation in both of our rides, so we can leave their piece of crap nearby with the motor runnin’, then port out of it into the Milano.”

“You can make a mass teleportation device that fits in our ship?” asked Peter. He supposed it shouldn’t surprise him that Rocket could build anything, but he had only ever seen personal teleportation rooms when they were in huge buildings, backed by governments or wealthy corporations. They weren’t available to the public unless they were unregulated, which meant unsafe. Nobody was stupid enough to use an unsafe teleporter, unless they were jonesing for a severe deformity or two.

Rocket didn’t take his skepticism as an insult, for once. “Same basic idea as an FTL port, just modified so it won’t scramble our guts when we use it without havin’ a ship around us. It won’t last for more than a couple uses, but we only need it for one. There’s just one problem.” He sighed. “I’m gonna need some parts. It’s more or less on our way to pick ‘em up, but they gotta be ordered in advance, so we can’t get ahold of ‘em without payin’.”

“That’s the problem? That we have to buy something instead of stealing it?”

“I don’t want my hard-earned units goin’ into some toy we don’t even get to play with after the job’s done!”

Peter laughed. “Order the parts. You can put it on my account until someone starts coughing up rewards for our services.”

Privately, he wasn’t sure if that would ever happen. Marwek and Wuul were the closest thing they had to patrons, at the moment, and they didn’t seem to have much in the way of money or resources except for their ship, which Rocket was now planning to abandon once they had used it to complete the rescue. There was always a chance that some of the other captives had a nice ransom attached, though.

Rocket put in the order, pointing at the total due and raising an eyebrow at Peter to see if he’d reconsider. For a moment, it was touch and go – they were looking at a lot of money, and Peter’s account was already hurting from Rocket’s surgery, which he had taken entirely on himself rather than bring it up with the rest of the team. “I bet Gamora and Drax will chip in,” he muttered.

“I knew it.” Rocket sounded exasperated. “You’re broke.”

“I’m not broke, I just—“

“Didn’t want to admit it. Uh huh. Look, I got this one, but some of them captives better have a nice ransom attached to pay me back.”

Peter gave up the argument prematurely. There wasn’t even any real reason that the Guardians kept separate accounts; they all ended up paying for the same things anyway. If Rocket wanted to take on this particular expense, it was probably his way of covering the surgery without needing to actually talk about it.

So it was that they landed on a mechanical supply ship the next day, and Peter left Rocket and the others to pick up the parts they had ordered. Peter himself had some diplomacy to attend to. He found Marwek and Wuul sitting quietly in the shared room on the Milano that they had been given, and told them they were going to have a drink with him.

They followed him dutifully to a bar where customers waited out the repairs on their ships. It smelled like engine grease, but so did everything here. Peter found a table near the center of the room, ordered three beers that smelled like engine grease, and sat down across from the brothers, smiling sardonically as he remembered sitting down in a bar like this the first time he had met them. “Too bad Keelah isn’t here,” he said. “It would be just like old times.”

“Keelah calls us every day in tears, asking if we’ve learned anything about possible survivors,” said Marwek flatly. “Would you like me to tell her you said hello?”

Peter’s smile left him. “Sorry. Bad joke.” He tried a sip of his beer. It tasted like engine grease. “I know you don’t want to be working with us. I’m not going to ask you to trust us. I can’t say we trust you, but I do believe that all you want is to get your family back, so I think we can get through this if you believe we have the same goal.”

Marwek was nodding hesitantly, but Wuul replied, “Then tell us why you’re doing this. You don’t have people of your own in there to rescue.”

“No.” Peter looked each of them in the eye. They didn’t show much family resemblance to each other, but their dolorous expressions were so alike that he would have known right away there was a connection. “We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy. This is what we do.”

“Not good enough,” said Wuul. 

In one sense, this negotiation wasn’t that different from the kind Peter’s former trade had required, and it wasn’t an idle boast to say he was good at it. He could keep his cool and get what he wanted. But there had also been times that the negotiations called for threats of violence, or actual violence, or anything but keeping his cool. Wuul was reaching what would have been Peter’s threshold if this had been a crime deal, and it called up a corresponding reflex of anger that wasn’t going to be useful here at all.

He kept his voice serious but civil. “One of us, and I won’t say who, escaped from a place like where your family is being held. One of us escaped from the actual mastermind responsible for that place existing. One of us had a spouse and a child once, both murdered. Are you hearing me? We have our reasons. We want you to get your family back.” He noted their surprised eagerness, and fixed them with a stony glare. “But here’s what you have to understand: we’re not doing this for you. We’re doing it for the victims, and that means all of them, not just the ones you care about. If you’re going to help, expect to help until the very end, because I’m not going to give you a chance to cut and run once you have what you came for.”

Marwek nodded in satisfaction. “We won’t cut and run.”

“I said I’m not giving you a chance to. No promise needed on your part. One of you is staying with the ship the whole time. One will stick with our team until he dies, or we all regroup on your Lotus Leaf together, whichever comes first. You guys can flip a coin for it. I don’t care.”

The two men exchanged a worried look with each other, but neither protested. “I’ll come with your team,” said Wuul. “To be clear -- we part ways as soon as this is over? Our family will depart on the Lotus Leaf, and you’ll take the remaining survivors on your ship?”

Peter grimaced, unable to help feeling a little apologetic about this part. “Actually, you’re coming with us on the Milano too. Your ship gets left behind. Rocket’s designing a teleporter for our grand exit.”

They both made some sounds of disbelief and outrage. “A _teleporter?_ ” “You’ll kill us all!” “Why do you have to sacrifice _our_ ship?” “We need a new plan. This will never work.”

He let them run out of things to say before he answered. “If Rocket says it’ll work, it’ll work. Yeah, there’s a risk. Did you think there wouldn’t be?” There was a short silence, and Peter continued, “As far as I can see, you’ve got nothing to lose but your ship and your lives. I’m pretty sure we only need your ship. Are you in?”

They grudgingly agreed that they were, and Peter left them to finish or ignore their engine grease beers without him. He left the bar feeling somewhat more grim than he had when arriving. Marwek and Wuul could be trusted to not stab them in the back, he was sure of that, but they couldn’t be trusted to stay out of the way and not do anything stupid. 

He would have liked to leave them both behind and deliver their people to them when the job was done, but pretending to be captured by the Lotus Leaf would get the Guardians deeper into the enemy territory than just using the access codes on the Milano would. And they did need someone to stay on the ship and operate the teleporter for the getaway. 

Peter walked back to the hangar wearing his Walkman but not playing it. He knew what song was up next; he always did, but it wasn’t quite what he wanted at the moment and he couldn’t decide what he did want. He fast-forwarded through the next three songs, stopping precisely each time where he knew they ended, but before he was settled enough to hit the play button, he was back inside the Milano. The other Awesome Mix was playing on the tape deck, making him realize instantly that _this_ was the song he had wanted.

Headphones lowered to his neck, he stopped just inside the cargo bay door and stood silently, enraptured by the scene in front of him. A number of large crates were piled in the middle of the bay, and Gamora was slicing into one to remove its lid. She lifted out a very heavy-looking beam projector and handed it to Drax, who tossed it clear across the room to Groot, who held it flush against the wall for Rocket, perched on his shoulder, to fasten it into place. When Peter looked back at Gamora, she was already handing off the next projector, and Groot was turning to catch it from Drax, and then Rocket was pointing out the spot where it should be installed. They were perfectly synchronized, even keeping time with the music, and none of them seemed to know it. Peter’s heart swelled. There were only three more projectors to go, but he could have watched this all day.

“Hey, slacker,” called Rocket, whose high vantage point made him the first to notice that Peter had entered. “You gonna help or what?”

“Nah,” said Peter. “You guys look like you got it covered. Same thing goes in the Lotus Leaf?”

Gamora looked up from the final device that she was unpacking. “Yes, that’s where we’re headed next. How did it go with Marwek and Wuul?”

He shrugged. “They’re bummed but they’ll deal with it. They should be around soon to unload all the stuff they want to keep.”

She passed the projector to Drax and straightened up, dusting her hands on her pants. “It’s not going to be easy to fit everyone in here for long. I wish we had a better estimate of how many people we expect to save from this lab.”

Drax made his toss and turned to address them both. “Some of them may die. Some of us may die too. That will make it easier to fit everyone else.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Peter snorted. “Did the rest of the stuff get delivered right to the Lotus Leaf? Let’s go get it set up.”

“I gotta finish with the calibration in here,” said Rocket. He scaled down Groot’s back and leaped the rest of the way to the floor. “I’ll catch up. Go with them,” he told the tree, pointing to Drax and Gamora. “Pete, hold up a sec.”

Peter obligingly waited where he was, examining the circle of mechanical equipment that had just been added to the cargo bay. Each device, when activated, would project a beam of energy to each side of itself and into the center, connecting to create a zone where everything inside the circle would vanish and reappear in the identical ring they were planning for the other ship. About fifty humanoids would fit in the zone. Gamora was right -- a better estimate on numbers would have helped, but if anyone was left after the mass teleportation, they could still attempt a getaway by flying the Lotus Leaf away.

“I been watchin’ the video,” said Rocket with no preamble, standing with his arms crossed and tilting his head up, as he so often had to when speaking with someone much taller than him. “Some of it’s...confusing.”

Peter blinked. “In what way?”

“I can’t figure out what they wanted to make outta me. I used to think it was just whatever they felt like tryin’ that day, no end result in mind. But now I’m hearin’ some stuff they said that I ain’t never heard before, and...I dunno if maybe it would help with what we’re doin’ here. Prob’ly not. I don’t know. But maybe it would.” He scratched his muzzle and looked down, but his eyes darted back up to Peter’s face. His next words came out in a rushed mumble that Peter just barely made out: “Wonderifyoucouldwatchwithme.”

Without hesitation, Peter touched his comm and contacted Gamora. “Can you guys manage this part on your own? I need to help Rocket prep something on the ship.” She responded promptly, and Peter nodded at Rocket. “Let’s go.”

“Didn’t mean it had to be right now,” said Rocket, still sounding a little bashful.

“It does, though. This is the last time we’ll have the Milano to ourselves for a while. I don’t want to try watching something while one of those Astrans is knocking on the door asking where we keep the plunger, or whatever.” He winced, remembering how much worse it would get if the mission was a success. “And soon we’ll be tripping on their kids. God, where are we going to put them all?”

Rocket gave him an amused smile, a little warmer than he usually managed. “They can have my bunk.”


	18. Charting New Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They watch the video. They talk about the video. Things get real.

The scientist adjusted the feeding tubes on the unconscious animal, then swiveled a camera over its back to project an oversized image of its current state onto the wall. He smiled when the image caught an up-close button nose before correcting, and gave the creature a gentle pat on the head. “If we could solve the temperament issues I would want one of these for my daughter.”

The other scientist in the room, younger and darker of complexion, looked up from his own readings. “Your disabled daughter?”

“Yeah. Can you imagine, a cute furry little helper that could talk and everything? She’d be ecstatic.”

The other smiled sympathetically, but shook his head. “They would never give us the budget for that.”

“I know.” His eyes stayed on the screen, fingers making the occasional gesture to scroll or focus, but his distraction was clear. “But I can’t help thinking, if we could produce exactly what they want just once... maybe that would get us a greenlight for variations. Something that isn’t necessarily a weapon.”

“Well, for that to work, they’d have to _tell us_ exactly what they want.”

The older man exhaled in frustration. “We used the samples they sent us. As a prototype, 89P13 is pretty damn near perfect. If we don’t pitch them something new they’ll just have us keep replicating the same process on other species.”

“Most likely, but pitching new ideas is about the only thing we _haven’t_ had any success in.” His tone was ironic, but when he looked up again and saw his colleague’s head hanging, he changed it. “Hey, look on the bright side. We’re charting new territory. We’ve done the impossible. And maybe you can’t get a service critter for your girl, but at least you’re providing for her.”

“Can’t complain about the pay grade,” the father acknowledged. “Alright, Thirteen’s set to hibernate for the next forty-eight hours. It’s still early, do you want to hit the pub tonight?”

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

“That’s it,” said Rocket. He turned off the video, shoulders sagging in relief when the picture of him on the table disappeared.

Peter reached out tentatively and laid a hand on his head, and then, getting no objection, began to stroke him in slow, even motions. Rocket wished this had started sooner, not entirely because he needed the comfort, but because he had only lately discovered how good it felt to be petted on his back, and he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to ask for it.

They were in Peter’s bunk, which was starting to smell as much of Rocket as it did of him, although Rocket supposed he was the only one who would know that. The part of the video that he had wanted to show Peter was only about ten minutes long, so they had spent the entirety of it sitting side by side on the bed, just within reach of each other. Rocket had already seen the video twice by himself, so he had mostly been watching Peter’s reactions: outrage, disgust, a deeply furrowed brow that probably just meant he was thinking.

His fingers pushed deeper into Rocket’s neck fur. “Pretty damn near perfect,” he murmured.

“What are you, tryin’ ta get my number?”

For a moment, Peter looked genuinely surprised, and then he forced out a brief laugh. “I get why you were confused by this part. These guys don’t know what they were trying to make, but they had instructions to follow, so someone knew. Thanos, I guess.”

“Why would Thanos want to make something like me?” Rocket asked quietly. It wasn’t rhetorical, but the question echoed back in his mind with a cruel twist -- _Why would anyone want something like me?_

Peter shivered. “Maybe to put you somewhere that a raccoon wouldn’t draw a second glance. Hide a weapon in plain sight.”

“Terra?”

“Not impossible.”

They sat in silence for a long moment. Peter’s hand had stopped, so Rocket inched closer and nudged it with his head. “Ya think they got some more raccoons where we’re goin’?”

“Hm,” said Peter, obliging him by rubbing up and down his back. “No clue. But if they took Astrans, they’re probably not doing exactly what they did on Halfworld.”

“Yeah,” Rocket agreed. His voice sounded glum to his own ears, although he was sure he didn’t care about finding any other animals of his own former species. “They’re gonna have records on me, though. If someone sees me I ain’t gonna have much luck tellin’ ‘em they got the wrong guy.”

“No one will see you.” It was stated with utter confidence. “Our cover is that Marwek and Wuul captured the Guardians, but it doesn’t have to be all the Guardians. I’m supposed to be dead already. You can be dead too. Anyway, subtlety isn’t the strong suit for the rest of us, either. We’re only gonna keep up the ruse until we get in the door.” He hesitated, then added, “And after that I’m going to be right by you the whole time.”

Rocket shot him a suspicious glare. “Why? Just ‘cause I don’t wanna be used as bait don’t mean I need a flarkin’ babysitter.”

Peter kept petting in spite of the jab. “No, you need a conscience. If I leave you alone you might shoot anything that moves. I can’t have a massacre on my hands while we’re trying to save people.”

Somehow, after delivering that sanctimonious condemnation, he was _still_ stroking Rocket, and he hadn’t sounded the least bit angry while he said it. Rocket was at a loss. This would usually be when he bit back, sometimes literally, but he didn’t want to give up Peter’s hand on his back. “I only kill people who deserve it,” he said stubbornly.

“Yeah, and you decide on the spot who deserves it. Look, Rocket, I’m totally fine putting my life in your hands. Done it before, ready to do it again. All I’m asking is for you to follow my lead for this one thing so we don’t have an Avengers Tower redux if you get spooked by what we see in there.”

Rocket winced. He had already admitted, to both himself and Peter, that he had been in the wrong when he tried to destroy the Avengers’ base of operations while four of them were inside of it. He couldn’t go back on that now. But… “These ain’t confused Terran superheroes, Pete. It’s the real deal this time.”

The look that Peter gave him was very gentle and very wise. “Makers,” he said. “That’s what you called them, isn’t it?”

Rocket noticed his hands trembling, and he clenched them into fists to hide it. “They’re evil,” he pleaded.

“That one we saw just now. With the daughter…”

“I told you about him. He was the one who was nice to me. But it wasn’t real, he was just tryin’ to keep me calm so they could do their work, he _told_ me that once, told me it wasn’t personal. You gotta believe me Peter, he was just as bad as the rest of ‘em, he was evil, they’re all evil--” 

He didn’t even realize that he had been babbling until Peter cupped his face in both hands and made him meet his eyes. “I. Believe. You.”

Rocket didn’t try to pull away. “I never knew he had a kid.”

“Would it have mattered?”

“I don’t know.” That was a lie. He was looking straight into Peter’s eyes and telling him a lie. “No! No, it wouldn’ta mattered shit. I didn’t know nothin’ about families and sacrifices and whatever else that bastard was up to. I woulda killed him anyway. Happy now?”

Peter finally released him, but his hand fell back on his head and stayed there as Rocket wiped away something that had gotten into his eyes. Why couldn’t they just watch a video about his horrific past without having to talk about his horrific past? 

“We’re all killers,” said Peter slowly. “Even Groot. I never murdered anyone who couldn’t fight back, but I never stopped to ask if they had kids, either. I don’t care what you did on Halfworld. I’m not shedding any tears over the bastard in question. But I do care about what this team does now, and this is too personal for you to be able to know when it needs to get lethal.”

Rocket had the odd feeling that a great weight was being removed. He wasn’t going to have to make any moral judgment calls. At the same time, he was faced with a kind of regret he hadn’t experienced before. “Do I really not have a conscience?” he asked, trying to sound like he didn’t care.

“You do,” Peter answered immediately. “It just needs some maintenance. You must have tinkered it into existence yourself, so it’s still pretty new.”

That made sense. Rocket had invented a lot of things by tinkering. He could always get them to work right, in the end.

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

A ship appeared at the jump point, and one of the two guards stationed there initiated the transmission protocol. “State your name, vessel identification, and purpose.”

The voice that responded was unfamiliar to either of the guards. “Marwek Yttulriok piloting, Wuul Yttulriok copiloting, Lotus Leaf, Class D-17 Transport. We have prisoners to turn in.”

The first guard exchanged a surprised glance with the other. “Identify the prisoners.”

“Gamora, Daughter of Thanos, and Drax the Destroyer.”

Both of the guards burst out laughing, leaving the transmission active so the occupants of the Lotus Leaf could hear it. “The Guardians of the Galaxy?” hooted the second one. “You two fellas captured half the Guardians of the Galaxy in your little punk commuter ship. That’s gold. Maybe you got a Celestial in there too?”

Yttulriok responded in a tone which had lost none of its sobriety. “Request a visual connection.”

“Why not?” said the first guard, still laughing.

He stopped when the image blinked on. Two Astran men were sitting in the pilot seats, and behind and between them, two humanoid figures were bound and gagged despite being clearly unconscious. One was a green-skinned woman and one was a large tattooed male wearing no shirt -- they fit the descriptions.

The guards put the connection on hold and exchanged a shocked look with each other. “It’s probably a hoax,” said one.

“Then the welcome wagon will probably cut their throats before they get to laugh,” said the other with a shrug. “I’m gonna buzz ‘em through.”

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

As the melee wrapped itself up, Peter holstered his weapons, took a look around for hidden enemies or fallen ones with the potential to get back up, and began a headcount of his own side. “That’s one,” he said as Gamora retracted her sword and flipped her hair. Groot emerged from around a corner, and Rocket emerged from out of nowhere to leap onto his shoulder and ride him back toward Peter. “Two, three.” Drax kicked a body out of his way as he returned. “Four,” said Peter, “and Star-Lord makes five. Good work, guys.”

“Six,” said Drax. He pointed back at Wuul, who was picking his way around the battlefield, eyes huge. “Don’t forget the wimp.”

“Six,” Peter agreed. He stepped over to Wuul to give him a hearty slap on the back. “Congratulations, you came out on the right side of your first curbstomp.”

The man gave him a skeptical look. “All I did was--”

“Stayed the hell out of the way,” Peter finished for him. “Just like we told you to. Keep it up. You’re with Drax from here, so do what he says. Within reason. Gamora?”

“Ready,” she said cheerfully.

“Rocket’s going to open the doors in the order you reach them. Show the captives where to go, but don’t look for trouble, just take out any thugs who happen to be in your path.” He waited for her nod, then went on, “Drax, look for trouble. The doors on your side won’t be unlocked yet, but guards will be patrolling. Try to get rid of them before they reach Gamora. You’ll meet up with each other halfway, so just help her with the rest of the captives from that point.”

They had gone over all of this already, but nobody was objecting to him saying it again now that they were inside the compound. Peter pulled up a holographic map so everyone could see where everyone else would be. “Pretty hard to get lost,” he remarked. “Every room opens into the corridor, and that goes in a circle so you’ll eventually get back here.”

He turned so that the corridor was to his left and right, and pointed straight ahead. “Rocket and Groot will be in the control room. I’ll be right here to guard their backs, and yours, if anything comes in the same way we did.”

Gamora went to the right, Drax and Wuul to the left. Rocket was already disabling a set of heavy locks on the door to the control room, and Peter barely had to pause before following Groot inside as the door swung open.

There were screens everywhere, each one showing the interior of one of the lab’s study rooms. A few other cameras were on the corridor, so Peter could see Gamora waiting by the first door and Drax picking his first fight with a uniformed tough. He didn’t seem to be in any danger, so Peter asked Rocket, “Can you work with this?”

“Yeah,” said Rocket absently from Groot’s shoulder, where he was opening up a sealed panel. “Won’t take long for someone to notice, though, so get ready to say hi.”

Peter drew his blasters and faced the door. “Did you see Drax pummeling that guard? I bet I can get one faster.”

Rocket’s voice floated down to him casually. “Oh, yours ain’t gonna be a guard. They don’t got a clue what’s goin’ on in the control room. The researchers, now. Sudden lock failure, and they come a-runnin’ to see what’s wrong.” There was an audible click as he disabled the door in front of Gamora, and Peter turned to watch her entering it from the monitor. On the next one over, a man in a white coat was running toward the control room from the main entrance. 

“You said you’d know when to get lethal, Pete,” said Rocket grimly. “Time to meet the makers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I honestly meant to go straight into the action this time but of course I ended up writing yet another touchy-feely conversation between Rocket and Peter. I should really just change the title to "Kairos Being Self-Indulgent".
> 
> Also, I've been having a really hard time getting myself to write, so I'm just going to go ahead with posting this now that it's reached my minimum word count, and I can't guarantee for quality. The transitions may be a little difficult to understand, as I decided not to write each step of their journey into the lab, or their initial fight when they get there. 
> 
> If there's an obvious error, though, I really hope you'll point it out to me, and if something doesn't seem to make sense I'm more than happy to clarify.


	19. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, here's an extra-long action-packed chapter to make up for it!

The scientist’s body hit the floor before he had spoken whatever word was forming on his lips. Rocket paused and looked down from Groot’s shoulder at Peter. “Is he dead?” He didn’t know why he asked. He had a job to do, and he shouldn’t be letting the fate of a maker distract him.

Peter shoved his smoking blaster back into its holster. “Not yet, but regaining consciousness in time to save his ass is his own responsibility.” He sounded as deadly serious as Rocket had ever heard him. “We’re at war, Rock.”

Turning back to the locking mechanisms that he had been disabling, Rocket felt himself grinning savagely. For once the makers didn’t have any advantage. Even the moral high ground.

The first door opened, and Rocket leaned back to see the screen that had a camera on it. Peter checked the area around himself, then took a cautious step back to watch along with Rocket. Gamora stepped into the frame, sword in hand, and continued into the room once she saw that there were no guards in the corridor. 

Rocket moved the screen aside and pulled up the one for the camera on the inside of the room. There were a number of glass enclosures sized for humanoids, and there were at least six prisoners visible inside them, but Rocket didn’t see anyone else. Gamora ought to be able to free them and keep moving, although some might be difficult to move. Rocket tried to make out the condition that the victims were in, but there were too many ways that they could have been hurt, and their bodies were all partially concealed by their cells.

“Gamora’s got this,” Peter reminded him gently. “Keep going.”

He nodded. After getting the next door open, he didn’t stop to look inside. Gamora would have to tell them if there was anything in there they had to see.

“Can you find a camera on Drax?” Peter asked. Rocket flipped a single switch and pointed across the room, and Peter headed over to the newly opened screen to get a closer look. “Dammit, Drax!” he moaned as soon as he got there, and Groot lurched anxiously under Rocket’s feet.

“What?” Rocket snapped at both of them. He knocked on Groot’s head. “Get back where I can reach.”

Instead of answering him, Peter held a comm to his face and said, “Drax, you better as hell have kept your comm on this time. What are you doing?”

Drax’s response came into the control room’s speakers, as Rocket had arranged. “I need this door opened immediately, and it’s the last one that Rocket will get to according to his sequence, so the fastest way is to break it down manually.”

Rocket could no longer resist; as soon as he had finished opening the third door, he turned to look at the screen showing Drax. Right away, it struck him that it was stupid to have thought that he might see anything other than Drax manually breaking down the door. He had barely made a dent in it so far, but it was possible that he would succeed after another twenty minutes of constant pounding. Wuul was standing nearby, watching with a worried expression and casting frequent glances at the wall as if he could see through it.

“Why is Drax being an idiot?!” Rocket yelled at Peter. “The guards are gonna come down on him like frickin’ seagulls!”

“Drax!” Peter shouted into the comm. “Why are you being an idiot?”

“I need this door opened,” Drax repeated, punctuating his words with reverberating blows to the door. “Wuul’s children are inside.”

Peter looked at Rocket, eyes wide with shock. For a few seconds they were both lost for words, and then Peter said, “We’re not gonna drag either of them away from there. Can you open that door out of order?”

“If I do, the system’s gonna read it as a random error and alert the IT guys, and the IT guys are gonna see our interference and send all the toughs they got straight to here.”

“We have to risk it,” Peter started to say, but then Gamora’s voice came into the control room.

All she said was, “Peter?”, but he and Rocket both turned to look at her on the other screen, and the trouble was immediately apparent. She was still in the first room, and the humanoids who had been imprisoned there were now moving freely, but instead of running they were surrounding her, blocking the door and holding poses full of menace. Gamora was in a defensive stance, her sword drawn but held close to her body, and one hand up in a suppliant gesture.

“What’s going on?” Peter asked. “Are they brainwashed?”

“No,” Gamora replied, keeping her eyes on the threat instead of trying to look at the camera. “They recognized me.”

With a sudden chill, Rocket remembered the day that they had all been detained at the Kyln. Gamora’s reputation spanned the entire galaxy, and the people who Thanos was keeping here were all too likely to have already suffered at the hands of his daughters. Gamora was in no physical danger from them, but it looked like they wouldn’t let her out without forcing her to hurt them, and there was no chance they would follow her instructions to help them escape. 

Rocket caught Peter’s eye again. “You gotta get over there and help her.”

Peter looked from him to the screen with Drax on it to the one with Gamora. His voice was as conflicted as his expression: “I can’t leave you here if you’re opening the door for Drax and the guards are coming.”

“I am Groot,” said Groot, and Rocket nodded sharply. “Exactly. I got enough muscle with him here. Get movin’!”

Finally Peter agreed. He turned on his faceguard and drew a blaster, saying, “I’ll take her place and send her back here,” before leaving the control room at a run.

Rocket trembled a little at his departure, but Groot offered a few words of reassurance and moved forward to get him in front of the controls for the door that Drax was still pounding away at. Rocket didn’t bother getting on the comm to inform him before overriding the locks and letting the warped piece of metal wrench itself open.

Drax stumbled back, and Rocket stayed watching the screen just long enough to see two Astran children scramble out of the cell and into Wuul’s arms, followed by four adults. “I am Groot!” Groot cheered.

“Yeah, good for them, but now they all gotta get back to the ship, and Drax is gonna have his hands full.” Rocket glanced around and saw the confirmation that guards were already running toward the opened door. He pushed the comm button. “Drax, you got company!”

There was no time to see how it would play out. Rocket had Groot take him back to the other side of the room, with the controls that operated the first few doors in the sequence, and the cameras that revealed Gamora and now Peter. It looked like Peter had successfully convinced the prisoners that he was on their side, and Rocket could guess how he had done it when he heard him speaking to Gamora in a threatening tone: “Back off. They’re coming with me.” She was following his lead, glaring but stepping away, and when she had cleared the doorway and was out of their line of sight, she turned and rushed back the way that Peter had come.

Peter raised a hand to his faceguard. “Rocket, these folks need an escort, am I clear?”

Rocket checked the corridor; it was a clear path from the first door to the ship. “Have ‘em go on their own. You gotta keep movin’, there’s somethin’ trying to bust outta its cage next door.”

“Okay,” said Peter. He didn’t sound happy about it, but Rocket was relieved that he wasn’t going to argue. “How are you doing?”

“Fine so far. Drax must be holdin’ ‘em back, but if they get through him they’re gonna mob the control room, so I gotta get these doors done fast so we can leave.”

Peter gave a nod and salute in the general direction of the camera, then began giving directions to the freed prisoners. Rocket moved to the next door, hoping that the ones in between weren’t going to cause any disturbance while they waited for Peter to get to them.

“I am Groot?”

“Can’t barricade ourselves in here. If things go south we’re safer gettin’ out than bein’ trapped in.”

“I am Groot.”

“They have not already gone south, and we ain’t leavin’ until the job gets done.” He hopped from Groot’s shoulder to the rack bearing the controls he needed. “Keep your eye on the monitors, tell me if somethin’s up.”

Gamora appeared in person, retracting her sword as she took a last look over her shoulder and then entered the control room. She had to step over the unconscious form of the scientist that Peter had shot when they first took control, and the first thing she said was, “Don’t you think this makes your position rather conspicuous?”

“I don’t got the time to rearrange bodies,” Rocket snapped, both of his hands darting among various levers and buttons. “Go make some more of ‘em, if you wanna be useful.”

“I am Groot.”

Rocket froze. “What?” He abandoned the locking mechanisms and scurried across the structure of racks connecting the room, returning to Groot’s shoulder to view the screen he was standing in front of. “Oh, flark. Gamora, you need to get out there. The guards are goin’ in both directions now and they’re gonna head Quill off.”

Gamora rushed over and looked up. “It seems there are more of them than we anticipated.” She placed a hand on Groot’s bicep, close to Rocket. “I can’t leave you alone in here.”

“I ain’t alone in here!” He hissed out a frustrated breath. “Geez, you and Quill both. Groot’s gonna watch my back, a’right? Go back the way you came, it’s cleared out now. Just stay in the corridor and fight whatever’s in there so you don’t scare anyone else.”

She crossed her arms, giving him a skeptical look. “I’ll ask Peter what he--”

“He’ll tell you ta stay,” Rocket cut in, desperate enough to make use of the truth. “He can’t handle it on his own but he’ll say he can so you’ll stay with me.” He was pleading with her, and wondered if she knew it. “Don’t ask him.”

Gamora hesitated a second longer, then left, stooping to drag the scientist’s body out with her and leave him on the other side of the open door. Rocket took a deep breath and assured Groot, one more time, that they were going to be fine.

He checked the camera on the second room; Peter had entered and released a pair of quadrupedal beasts that stumbled past him trailing tubes and wires. The sight of them, so different from the previous victims, was alarming. “What are those?” Rocket asked through the comm. “Did they talk to you?”

“No, but they understood me. I think. If they can make it to the ship, we’ll take them with us.”

It was likely that they had been detached from some kind of life support and would die quickly, but Rocket remembered the fear and agony of that stage of modification, and he appreciated that Peter had liberated them anyway. He tried not to think about it anymore. Peter was still exploring the room, which had enough corners and compartments to hide additional victims. Rocket went ahead to check the next room, which he had already opened, and his fur stood on end. “Pete, there’s a make-- a scientist comin’ up. He’s hidin’ in the back. Probably armed.”

“Okay, thanks.” He continued searching around himself.

Rocket waited for more, vexed by the calm acknowledgment of danger. “Skip that room and go back at the end,” he suggested.

“It’s one coward in a lab coat, Rock, I can handle it. Are the others okay?”

Groot was still watching the screens that Rocket wasn’t, but they needed his own attention too, and it was embarrassing that he needed to be reminded of that. Reluctantly he turned from the view of Peter to give a cursory glance to Drax’s and Gamora’s conditions.

Drax was visible on the same camera where they had last seen him, though now he was fighting four guards at once, and three bodies were piled around him. It was the first time Rocket had gotten a good look at the guards, and he was troubled to see that they were all as big as Drax and armed with blades as well as knockout blasters. He was holding his own with his pair of knives, but his only major advantage seemed to be their refusal to use their blasters at short range.

Panning down the corridor showed that Gamora had somehow slipped past the melee and was engaged in her own battle, at the bend of the complex roughly equidistant between Peter and Drax. She was fighting two guards -- two who she had almost definitely distracted from pursuing Peter, so it looked like Rocket had made the right choice in sending her there. Once she got through them, she should be able to take on any others and meet up with Peter so that they could protect each other from anyone else lurking in the rooms.

With that assurance on his mind, Rocket returned to unlocking the doors. He finished one more before Groot spoke the last words he wanted to hear.

“I am Groot.” All four enemies engaging Drax were down, but so was Drax himself. Apparently there had been one more all along, concealed in the room where the Astrans had been held, waiting for his opportunity to come out and blast everyone with an enormous beam that left the walls still quivering.

Rocket swallowed. Drax wasn’t dead, but the guard with the beam cannon was right there and ready to administer the coup de grace.

“Go get him,” Rocket commanded.

“I am Groot!”

“He’s gonna die, Groot! Take him back to the ship and hurry! I’ll be fine!” Another precious second ticked by with Groot’s tormented eyes on him. “GO!”

Groot went. Rocket immediately closed the door behind him; there was no point in leaving himself an escape route anymore. If anyone found him here -- and they would, now that Drax wasn’t there to block the way in -- he wouldn’t be able to get past them anyway, and he couldn’t leave yet. 

He contacted both Peter and Gamora to tell them what had happened, but Gamora was still too busy fighting to respond. Peter volunteered to come back, of course, so Rocket explained that he was safely locked in and that the doors would keep opening so the remaining prisoners could be freed. “Just one problem,” he added. “Them Astrans are all back on the ship by now, and they know how to activate the teleporter. Wild guess, Groot’s not gonna manage to talk ‘em outta waitin’ for the rest of us.”

Peter cursed softly. “We’ll send Gamora as soon as she finishes up here. I’ll swing around to come get you and we can sweep the rest of the rooms together. That sound good?”

“That sounds awesome,” said Rocket with grateful sincerity. He wasn’t panicking, but this was the last place he wanted to be alone right now. There were only two doors left to open, and he could get them done by the time Peter made it back. “Hey, what happened with that coward in a lab coat?”

“Out cold. What did I tell you?”

Rocket chuckled and returned to his work, taking quick glances at the two screens featuring Peter and Gamora so that he could keep one eye on both of them. Gamora got past her current opponent and encountered and dispatched another before she reached Peter. The two of them exchanged a few hurried words, and she passed him and continued on to the path that led from the center of the complex to the parked Lotus Leaf.

“All the doors are open ‘cept this one,” Rocket announced. “How’s it look where you’re at?”

Peter was at the entrance of his fourth room. “Looks empty in here but I’m gonna give it a once-over and then I’ll head back your way. You see anything on your end?”

Rocket examined the camera. None of them really gave him a satisfactory all-over view, but they had sensors as well, and this one was showing something that made him slightly suspicious. “Movement. Can’t tell if it’s a baddie or a victim. Be careful.”

The ominous feeling increased as Peter went further in, even though he was clearly heeding Rocket’s warning. The lights had been on in the other rooms, but they were off in this one, and there was a shining metal antechamber that the others lacked, too. Peter had both feet on the silver plate when Rocket suddenly had a memory click into place that told him exactly what he didn’t trust about this room. “Get out of there right now,” he said urgently.

Peter snapped to attention, but the movement at the back of the room materialized in the darkness at the same time, and his reflexes made him point his blaster at it instead of running. “GET OUT!” Rocket screamed helplessly. 

There was a screech of metal as the maker who had been lying in wait pulled a handle on the wall. The entire antechamber where Peter was standing was sealed up in a forcefield, glowing bluish-white and lifting his body off the floor, where it hovered, vibrating. Rocket knew exactly what he was feeling. He knew he would take no lasting damage from it. He knew the paralysis would come first, starting at the extremities and working its way inward, and unconsciousness would follow.

The forcefield vanished and Peter fell in a limp heap. Rocket was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know cliffhangers like this are a killer. :)


	20. War, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How is Rocket going to cope with being the last man standing in the middle of his worst nightmare?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah this came as a bit of a surprise. I'm just so desperate to finish this story properly. But also, this chapter and the last one (and probably the next one) go together and it didn't seem fair to leave too much time between them. 
> 
> I've been on vacation and my real life starts up again soon, so I'm not sure what that will mean for my writing, but as you can see, we're finally coming toward a conclusion. Please share any feelings you have, they help soooo much!

None of the other Guardians, except for Peter, were visible on the control room monitors. That was a relief, in a way: Groot must have gotten Drax to safety, and Gamora must have made it back to the Lotus Leaf to keep Marwek and Wuul from activating the teleporter without the rest of them. But Rocket needed help, and he needed it badly enough to ask for it.

He tried Gamora on her comm, but after five seconds she hadn’t answered, and five seconds was too long to leave Peter paralyzed in the same room as the scientist who had knocked him out. Rocket’s heart clenched; he was going to have to leave the control room. In a frenzied search for inspiration, he found some basic controls for sending out alarm messages, and released one without checking to see what it was. Maybe it would provide a distraction.

There was one weapon he had left on the floor, since of course he wasn’t going to go into anything unarmed. He jumped down from the rack, hefted the modified rifle over his shoulder, and then scaled back up to where he had been so that he could reach the switches that operated the door. He had the gun aimed and ready when it opened, exposing him, but thankfully, nobody was there.

Gun strapped against his back, he ran on all fours at his top speed down the corridor and to the room where Peter had fallen. Less than a minute had passed since the forcefield had neutralized him, and he looked no different than he had on the camera, but Rocket couldn’t spare him more than half a glance, because the enemy was still inside, too.

Why the scientist hadn’t yet approached more than a few steps became clear when Rocket saw him looking up at a monitor high on the wall, which had turned itself on to illuminate the darkened room in a sickly glow. The alert on it read: TEST SUBJECT LOOSE. CEASE ALL ACTIVITY UNTIL SUBJECT HAS BEEN SECURED.

Rocket almost laughed -- of all the error messages he could have sent out, it had to be the one that was true -- but then the screen changed to display further information.

**SUBJECT 89P13**  
Cybernetic enhancements  
Heightened intelligence  
Can operate weapons and machinery  
 **EXTREMELY DANGEROUS**  
Use stun/tranquilizer guns to subdue. Do not approach!

It even had a picture of him. How was this possible? The alert couldn’t have been generated anywhere but the control room, and he hadn’t done anything to indicate his own presence.

Unless...he had been all over the most equipment-heavy area in the complex, and as soon as he had tripped the “subject loose” alarm, there could have been an automatic sensor that identified his genetic signature. It was safe to assume that this laboratory had all of his records, transferred in from Halfworld, so it must have synced to fill in the data about exactly which test subject had escaped.

In short, he had announced his presence to everyone here. _Well,_ he thought grimly, _I wanted a distraction._

His arrival in the doorway drew the scientist’s attention away from the monitor, but when he saw that he was looking at a match for the photo beneath the warning, he did a perfect double take. This time Rocket really did laugh, though he had never felt less mirthful. Before the enemy could react any further, he had taken a blast from Rocket’s rifle full in the chest.

Oddly, the only thought that Rocket could grasp after firing was that he had broken Peter’s rule and killed someone. He dropped the gun and knelt over Peter’s form, touching his cheek. His eyes were still open; the paralysis would reach his face last, so he might even be able to speak for the next thirty seconds or so. “Hey,” Rocket said hoarsely. “Hey, I know you can still hear me. I need you, Peter. You were supposed to be my conscience. I don’t know what to do here and, and, I’m scared...” He covered his mouth. He had never told anyone he was scared before, not even Groot. He had never imagined the kind of circumstances that would make him admit that out loud.

A very slight change came into Peter’s expression, which had been frozen in the shock he must have felt when he was attacked. Now his eyebrows were just barely tilting in sympathy, and his mouth looked like it was trying to smile. “Mission,” he rasped. “Go. You...good.” He blinked, and then became fully motionless.

Rocket palmed his eyes closed for him, knowing that he could no longer do it himself. It felt too much like administering to the newly deceased, and part of him wanted to just curl up and cry it out until something changed here, whether it was Peter recovering or the makers coming to kill them both. Instead, he leaned close to his ear and said, “Fine, you asshole. I’ll try. But you owe me big time for this and I swear if you die I’ll...I’ll... _don’t fucking die,_ Pete!”

There was no way to get him behind a closed door and still be able to get back to him later, so Rocket dragged him deeper into the room and under a table that cast a shadow black enough to hide him. The scientist’s body would have to stay where it was, but Rocket ran over to check that he was really dead before leaving. He was, and his eyes had stayed open, too. Rocket left them that way.

Rocket kept his oversized rifle strapped across his back, but he also took one of Peter’s blasters. Peter wouldn’t be able to use it, and additional weapons gave a small boost to Rocket’s confidence. He approached the next room with caution, peering around the corner before entering. He wished that he could have somehow kept the monitoring system from the control room with him, but at least he had his sharpened senses. He could smell chemicals, sanitized medical equipment, everything he dreaded except for the humans who worked with it. He could also smell animals. A lot of them.

When he stepped in, his courage nearly failed him entirely. The cages were stacked against every wall, up to six high, and most held multiple creatures. They made very little noise, considering their numbers and conditions, and Rocket was instantly sure, without knowing how he knew, that all of them had been born here and known no other life. 

He forced himself to come close to one of the cages and peer inside at the furry brown thing that cowered in the farthest corner. “What did they do to you? Anything? Or are you still whatever your parents and their parents were?” There was no answer or any other sign of intelligence. Rocket stepped away and addressed the entire room’s occupants. “Can anyone understand me?”

It was a doomed hope from the start. Rocket raked his hands through his head fur. “Dammit, Peter! What do I do?”

There was a monitor in this room, too, still flashing with the warning and information about Rocket. Someone else was probably reading it right now and getting their stun gun ready. Rocket hated stun guns. The only worse way to be captured was with a forcefield, like they had used on Peter. He realized that he was whimpering, way back in his throat, and gave his head an angry shake. “Extremely dangerous,” he quoted. “Do not fuckin’ approach.”

With that thought fixed firmly in his mind, he ran over to the room’s individual console and examined it to see what capabilities it had. His heart sank as he found confirmation that his only idea would work. He didn’t want to do it, but he saw no other option and Peter wasn’t here to tell him if this was the wrong choice.

Some simple rewiring and a few typed commands sent a jolt through each cage, giving every test subject an instant death that Rocket was fairly sure was painless. “It’s better,” he whispered into the following silence. “You wouldn’t want what was comin’ next.”

He kept Peter’s blaster drawn as he continued on, intently conscious of the time ticking away. There were six more rooms to check if he was going to finish the mission properly. The guards all seemed to have been defeated by the other Guardians -- he had already passed a few fallen ones in the corridor, and could see more up ahead -- which meant that only the makers were left. Anyone else would have thought that the weak intellectual scientists were the less dangerous enemy. Rocket knew better. He never should have let his friends face them without him.

While he was between rooms and could hear nothing moving nearby, he tried Gamora on her comm again. This time there was some sound coming through, but not her voice, and Rocket didn’t try to listen and interpret the muffled background noise.

There was just one prisoner in the next cell, and no guards or makers. It was a Xandarian male, naked and strapped to a table on his back. Rocket came forward warily, and saw that he was conscious, and that all four of his limbs were artificial. His cybernetic left arm appeared to be fully attached and functional, while the right arm and both legs were held in place with metal pins, exposed sinews twisted around them. 

His eyes followed Rocket, and he was the first to speak, irony in his voice. “Well, you’re not one of them.”

Rocket shook his head and lowered the blaster. “I’m with the Guardians of the Galaxy. We came to, uh...to rescue you.”

“Little late for that,” said the man. “But I’m glad it’s over.”

Rocket didn’t ask what he meant by that. “Can ya tell me anything about what else is goin’ on in this place?”

“No. All they said is that they’re testing these parts on me. Gods know what they did with my real parts. Are there others like me? Sometimes I hear things...”

“Yeah.” It was such a relief to be talking to someone who talked back, someone who was at least harmless if not helpful, that Rocket almost started on a full explanation of everything he knew. But Peter was waiting, and he had a real problem on his hands now. “Look, we gotta get out and those fake legs don’t look like they’re goin’ anywhere, so hang tight while I find some kinda...” What? A wheelchair? Who would push it? 

The Xandarian raised his voice. “Stop, Guardian. I wasn’t supposed to live through this. If you try to move me you’ll disconnect me from the life support.”

“I can fix that.” Rocket looked at the way the equipment was attached to the victim and winced. It would take a long time to rewire it, and he still wouldn’t have a way to move him when it was done.

“Please. Just unstrap me, that’s all I want.”

Rocket hesitated, confused by the request. Taking the restraints off wouldn’t allow the man to move. It wouldn’t do any harm either, though, and it kept his hands busy while he was trying to think of a more permanent solution.

“My name is Tetrouni Raas. I was a Nova Corps pilot. I’ve been MIA for the past year. I have a family waiting to hear what happened to me.” He met Rocket’s eyes as his left arm was freed and waited for a nod. “Thank you, Guardian.” He held up the cybernetic hand, flexed it, and then reached behind himself to grab a fistful of bunched wires that led through a hole in his pallet to the back of his neck. With one sharp tug, he had pulled them out. A trail of sparks danced across his metallic limbs, but the light was gone instantly from his eyes.

Rocket jumped back with a hiss. “You’re not welcome,” he informed the dead man, but he pushed him back into a position that looked like sleep. “Tetrouni Raas. I’ll try.”

The next room had no cages, cells, or works in progress. Rocket had never felt so grateful to be alone.

As he was leaving, two more staff members finally showed their faces, both of them walking toward him down the corridor. They did have stun guns, but Rocket outmatched them easily and dropped them with two measured blasts from Peter’s weapon. The next open door was right beside them, and a tense voice rang out from inside it when they fell: “It’s out there! It shot them!”

Rocket kept his breathing steady. They knew where he was. They knew what he was. They would be ready for him. He needed some kind of advantage. “Heightened intelligence,” he told himself. “Think. Think. Cybernetic enhancements. Can operate machinery. Weapons. Think!”

It was no use. He knew this was a situation that he should have been uniquely qualified to handle, but the last time he had been trapped in a lab facing death or worse at the hands of mad scientists, he had never experienced anything better. He hadn’t even known what to wish for, except an end to the pain, or at his worst moments, oblivion. 

Now he had so much at stake. He had friends he wanted to see again, a life he could live again if he could only get through this. He wanted to be falling asleep with Peter in the bunk that smelled like both of them. More than anything, he wanted Peter here now, conscious, cocky, offering guidance and teamwork. “What do I do?” Rocket asked again. “What the hell would you be doin’ right now?”

He knew the answer: Peter would be saving everyone. Even him. That was how they had gotten here in the first place -- Rocket had woken up injured and unwilling to do anything about it, but safe. The last thing he remembered before that was climbing into one of those ridiculous ‘rooster’ mechs, so someone must have run through a battlefield and carried him to the ship, and there was little doubt about who that had been. Rocket shook his head in chagrin. Him and his stupid ideas. Of course a vehicle walking on two legs wouldn’t provide any real protection in an open space...

Rocket blinked. He went over his last few thoughts, and very slowly, he grinned.


	21. War, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Run, Rocket, run...

If Rocket had been in a rush before, now he was a whirlwind, dashing from room to room to get what he needed and putting it together so quickly he could barely see his own hands. It was taking a toll on him, but when this was over he could either rest for a few days, or rest eternally. 

His first stop was the place with all the cages, now occupied only by corpses. Steeling himself against the horror of what he was doing, he chose one large enough to fit himself inside, tore off its door, and tipped it over to dump out the bodies of two rabbit-like creatures. The cage was connected to the central console through various wires, some of which he needed, so he cut and stripped them selectively before hoisting the whole thing over his head and carrying it out and into the next room. 

The remains of the Nova Corps pilot, Tetrouni Raas, were laid out on the table looking as ghoulishly wrong as they had when he was alive. Rocket set down the empty cage with a clatter and murmured an apology to the dead man before detaching the cybernetic legs from his torso. He had all of the tools he needed on a nearby tray, but it was impossible to get the parts of the legs that he needed without touching human flesh, and he felt like a butcher. “Sorry,” he whispered again without slowing down. 

Finally he was able to push both of the jointed metal bars down to the floor, realign them, and set them upright again, side by side. He had to pull the cage up to the table to set it on top of the legs, but then it was easy enough to attach it securely and connect the wires so that commands could be entered from inside the cage.

His gun went on top, hooked up and tied down with additional cables from the cage, and Rocket climbed inside. He couldn’t replace the door, which left a large opening behind him, but the cage itself wasn’t going to afford much protection anyway. What he needed from it was its framework, and the electronic system that he had used earlier to murder all of the lab animals. The cages were probably designed to self-clean, dispense food, and restructure themselves at the remote commands of the lab attendants, but Rocket had reprogrammed this one for something entirely new. If it worked, of course. This was the moment of truth: he made a few final adjustments, pressed the right buttons on his control pad, and held his breath.

Right on cue, a bubble of blue light appeared around the cage, forming a shield that would deflect any projectiles or rays aimed Rocket’s way. He sighed in relief and tested the legs. They moved, if awkwardly, and Rocket took his new vehicle in a walk around the room to get used to its bumpy gait. 

That was all the time he could spare. The makers were still waiting to ambush him; it was now or never.

It gave him some satisfaction to imagine how this was going to look from their perspective: a cage with an automatic weapon on top, walking on two cybernetic legs, with a force field around it and Subject 89P13 inside. He steered it into the corridor, picked up some speed, and let out a battle cry as he burst into the final laboratory room.

A chorus of panicked shrieks greeted him, along with a hail of blasts from various handheld weapons, all of which dissipated against his force field. There were prisoners among the scientists, Rocket saw, and some were clearly intended as hostages, but the ones who were restraining them didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to announce any threats. Instead they fired shot after shot at Rocket, while the hostages made the most of the opportunity and struggled to get free of their bonds.

Rocket was willing to sit there passively while his enemies depleted their ammunition, but when one of the prisoners ran for the door and a scientist turned his weapon on her, it was time to fight back. He stomped closer in his makeshift mech, fiddled with the controls until he was able to aim his overtop gun, and activated the trigger.

For a few seconds after the blast, the room went perfectly silent. The human in the white lab coat had fallen stiffly with no visible mark on him, but he was dead all the same. One of the captives screamed, two of the makers started shooting at Rocket again, and coherent words were spoken for the first time: “Shoot to kill! Kill it! Kill it!”

Another voice countered from behind him. “No, you fools, we’re not supposed to--”

Rocket wished his transport had arms as well as legs. He needed to get the victims out of here, and he didn’t see any way that he could do it without leaving the cage. He fired two more blasts, one to each side of the last scientist to shoot at him. “Drop it!” he growled, and for a wonder, the man obeyed, or maybe he just lost his grip on his weapon. “Take the chains offa them,” Rocket added, pointing through the force field at the nearest prisoners.

The disarmed maker only released one of the captives, but that was enough: once his wrists were freed from their restraints, he went right to work on the others’. “Everyone out!” Rocket yelled. “If ya didn’t come here on purpose, you’re leavin’ now! Everyone else, let ‘em be! That’s it, get goin’, we got a ship waitin’ for ya outside! Don’t stop runnin’ til you get there!”

Through the chaos he could see that the people he had come to save were getting out, one by one, and he would soon be alone in here with the makers. They were already starting to take cover wherever they could, having apparently given up on taking him alive. He wasn’t sure how long the force field, slapdash invention that it was, would hold. If he didn’t take out the rest of the threats in here now, he was sure to be pursued.

An arresting voice rang out from behind a counter. “Rocket Raccoon!” 

Rocket wheeled the mech to face the speaker, astonished, but it was nobody he knew, just another maker standing up slowly with his hands over his head. He kept talking, clear and steady. “That’s what you call yourself, isn’t it?”

It had to be some kind of trap, but Rocket was keeping a close eye on his surroundings from every angle, and he couldn’t see anyone sneaking up on him. Instead of answering, he pointed the gun and raised an eyebrow, although he wasn’t certain if that would be noticeable through the blue glow of the protective shield.

The man shrugged, still holding up his arms. “Well, if it is, then don’t shoot, Rocket. You’re free to go, just don’t kill anyone else.”

“Are you _mad_?” hissed one of the others. “If they found out we let it get away they would--”

“We only need one,” the first speaker snapped back at him, then turned to Rocket again and continued in that persuasive tone. “Look, I don’t want to die. You got what you came here for, right? Take them and go.”

Oddly, Rocket had the sense that he was telling the truth. It wouldn’t be that difficult to hash out a truce with him if it only had to last long enough for Rocket to escape the laboratory with all of the freed test subjects. It would mean that he didn’t have to kill again. 

Those thoughts flew through his mind in the space of a second, leaving him with one pressing question. “You only need one what?”

All of the scientists looked surprised to hear him speak. One reached for a blaster again, and Rocket fired a warning shot from his own weapon and repeated, “What do you only need one of?” They weren’t answering, just casting alarmed glances back and forth at each other. 

For one fleeting, pathetic moment, Rocket hoped this meant that there was another cybernetic raccoon in the works, just like him, but he knew better. The lab may have been collecting all kinds of random test subjects, but the Guardians had been sought out personally. Thanos wanted them so he could examine the effects of the Infinity Stone on the only known survivors of holding it. They only needed one Guardian to suffer through whatever sick experiments he had in mind. And if it wasn’t Rocket…

“Peter,” he breathed, and turned the mech around, stomping back out through the door. He took the corner too fast for the top-heavy construct to handle, and it toppled over, the force field winking out as the cage hit the floor. Rocket scooted out the back and kept running on his own four legs, never looking back, until he was back to the room where he had left Peter.

The good news was that Peter was still there. The bad news was that he was no longer alone, that both of the men in guards’ uniforms who were picking up his unconscious form were armed, and that Rocket wasn’t. He hadn’t had the time to detach his gun from the cage, or to retrieve Peter’s blaster from the other room, so now he was empty-handed in a standoff with a couple guys who were in the act of abducting his friend. Behind him, he heard hesitant footfalls -- the makers were going to cut off his exit.

Rocket didn’t pause long enough for them to process the situation. He went for the man who was grabbing Peter’s ankles, causing him to drop them as Rocket scaled up his back and snatched his blaster out of its holster. The guard was still flailing and stumbling as Rocket shot down the other one from his shoulder, then pistol-whipped his head and jumped off as he was falling. 

Peter seemed to be in good condition, considering. After what he had been through it was best that he slept through the next few hours, and it would probably be impossible to wake him anyway. The paralysis had worn off, so at least he was resting naturally instead of in his rigid pose from earlier. Rocket found his second blaster under the table, too, which was a relief. At least he wouldn’t have to lose both of them.

In the few minutes he judged that he had before the scientists followed him in, he found an operating table with a removable top, meant to be used as a stretcher while the subject was moved from one room to another. Rocket didn’t have the support structure on wheels that it was meant to be placed on, but it would still hover just above the floor. 

He got it down and dragged Peter onto it, standing up with the blaster in his hands just as the first of the staff from the other room showed his face. Rocket didn’t think twice before firing, although he did his best to make it non-lethal. “Okay, Pete,” he said as the scientist fell backward into the corridor to the sound of dismayed muttering from others waiting out there. “Time to blow this joint.”

Fortunately, Peter was still wearing his jet boot attachments. Rocket made sure he was centered squarely on the table, hands folded over his stomach, blaster back in his holster, before laying down on top of him. There were handles at each corner of the table, and if Rocket stretched he could reach one in each hand while his head was down on Peter’s chest. He found the catch on the boots with his toes, nudged them into action, and flattened himself onto Peter, grabbing the handles to steer through the door as the sudden thrust had the hovering table zooming across the floor like a magic carpet.

Shouts followed them down the corridor, but they were moving too fast for anyone to catch up, and if there were shots fired, they all missed. Steering the hoverboard with the two corner handles took some brute strength, and it was extremely hard to see where they were going from Rocket’s low vantage point, but he found the intersection in front of the control room and made the turn without tipping over. 

The only thing solid and real was Peter’s warm body beneath him, which was surprisingly comforting for such a deadweight in a time of need. When they got out of this, Rocket decided, he was going to pretend that Peter had just been lazy, and mock him mercilessly for sleeping through their daring escape.

There were no more guards in this part of the compound, but getting to the Lotus Leaf from the laboratory’s entrance wasn’t a straight shot. More than once, Rocket had to stop the hoverboard altogether and change its position to accommodate a sharp corner or an incline before continuing. But there were no more sounds of pursuit behind him, so instead of staying low he could kneel with one knee on Peter’s chest and one beside him.

When they made it to the dock, he had never been so happy to see such a lousy ship. There was a hatch that opened directly into the cargo bay’s entry chamber, but he had to leave the hoverboard behind, so he hooked his arms under Peter’s armpits and walked backward, dragging him into the chamber. 

The door closed behind them, and Rocket allowed himself to believe, for the first time, that they might just be safe. He checked Peter’s vital signs again, straightened his clothing, and opened the door to the Lotus Leaf’s cargo bay, striking a triumphant pose so Groot and Gamora -- and Drax, if he was conscious yet -- and what the hell, those Astran losers too and everyone they had rescued from the lab -- would see that he had done it, he had brought Peter back to them, he was ready to be hailed as the hero of the day.

A spiralling twist opened the hatch, bringing the cargo bay into full view, with its ring of beam projectors all secured around the ceiling to activate the teleportation device, just as he had left it.

Not a single person was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger notwithstanding, this completes the trio of action chapters, so next time we should be back to, you know, the self-indulgent stuff that you all told me you liked because you're a bunch of enablers is what you are. 
> 
> I'm more certain than ever that I'm committing a few continuity errors or stylistic no-nos or logic failures here, and I'm kind of beyond caring BUT, I do still want to know about them! I'll give you imaginary Skittles if you find them, and also I will possibly work on fixing them.


	22. Only the Two of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocket's bad day is finally coming to an end.

What had happened was clear enough, really. The freed prisoners had pressured Marwek and Wuul into teleporting them all to safety right away, and those sons-of-a-bitch Yttulriok brothers had either caved, or originated the idea themselves. Groot wouldn’t have known how to help, Drax was probably still unconscious, and Gamora was hated by enough of the crowd to overwhelm her.

That was the logical explanation. Rocket just had to ignore the voice in the back of his head saying that his own teammates had given up on him.

He crouched next to Peter, who he had left lying on his back on the floor, and placed a hand on his cheek. “They wouldn’t give up on _you_ ,” he said, for his own sake. “And I won’t either. I said we were gettin’ outta here, didn’t I, Pete?”

There was a ship-to-ship comm system in the cargo bay, but Rocket dialed Gamora directly instead of the Milano, given that he didn’t know who was controlling it right now. He didn’t have much hope, but she picked up almost immediately, exclaiming, “ _Rocket?!_ ” and then saying to someone else on her side, “He’s alive!” 

Groot’s voice overlapped hers as she asked, “Where is Peter?” 

Rocket had questions of his own, but just then he could have cried with joy. He spoke loudly enough for Groot to hear: “I’m okay, man, we’re both okay for now. What the hell happened with you?”

Gamora’s remorse was as clear as day. “As soon as I got back to the ship, a fight broke out. Marwek said we could wait another hour for you, but then he teleported all of us out anyway, while Groot was protecting me from the captives. We’re still on the Milano, and...they still won’t let me leave or change the flight path.”

“Drax?”

“Hasn’t revived yet, but they’re taking good care of him. Wuul explained how he saved the children. And they saw that Groot saved Drax, so they respect him too.” She was masking her bitterness well, but Rocket sympathized. It was one thing to miss out on the credit you deserved, it was another to be held in contempt by the very people saved by your heroic deeds. “Can’t Peter talk?” she pleaded.

Rocket blew out a long breath. “Not right now, no. Listen, I can rig this to do a second ‘port, but it ain’t gonna be gentle. I gotta get this hunka junk closer to where you’re at before we make the jump, or the displacement syndrome might kill us.”

“How are you going to get the Lotus Leaf out of the hangar? They’ll shoot you down the moment word gets out about what we--”

“I don’t know!” he barked into the comm. “I’m makin’ this up as I go along! I’ll figure it out but just tell me one thing. Even if everything goes right, we’re still gonna be KO’d when we materializorate. Can we count on these goofy ingrates to not kill us on sight?”

“I am Groot,” said Groot before Gamora could answer.

Rocket smiled sadly, hoping he would hear those words in person again. “I’ll take that,” he told Gamora. “Hey, try to explain to him what’s goin’ on, would ya? I ain’t got time right now.”

“Are you sure this is the only way?”

“Open to suggestions.”

He let the pause go on for just a few seconds before they both sighed, and Gamora wished him luck. Rocket considered adding a farewell that contained the words _if we don’t make it_ , but held it back. Peter wouldn’t say that. Peter would assume they were going to make it.

After ending the call, he looked around for a place that Peter could be secured. He would have preferred to bring him along up to the cockpit, but it was strenuous enough dragging him a few meters across the floor. The weight wasn’t an issue; he was just too big for Rocket to carry over his shoulders or in his arms. “Don’t ever get caught in a paralysis field again,” he grunted as he trudged backward with Peter hanging limply from his hands. 

Against the hull down here there were a few seats with straps, but there were also a couple of suspended animation pods, which seemed safer considering Peter’s current condition. Rocket hauled him into one and programmed it to the Unenhanced Sleep setting, then closed the lid and took one last look at his friend’s comatose face. “Back soon,” he whispered.

Rocket hadn’t spent much time in the Lotus Leaf’s cockpit, but he was already familiar with its controls thanks to piloting it remotely after the Astrans had joined up with the Guardians on the way to the laboratory. It was an easy vehicle for even an inexperienced pilot to handle, but Rocket was going to need all of his skill and creativity to coax it into performing in ways that were logically beyond its capabilities. 

He pulled out of the hangar immediately, knowing he couldn’t waste a second of the grace period he had before all of the aerial security for the compound caught on. The weapons he had at his disposable might help him take out a pursuant ship or two, but in an all-out firefight he wouldn’t stand a chance. He steered through the exit tunnel, hacked the gate to open for him without scanning his credentials, and burst out into open space with a gale of victorious laughter.

The first guard ship appeared on the radar behind him. The speakers buzzed, and a voice came through: “Class D-17 Transport Vessel, halt immediately or we will fire!”

Rocket pushed a button absently to answer. “Class-A Cement Heads, go screw yourselves.” He set the navigation to show him where the Milano was waiting, but he couldn’t head in its direction yet without revealing its location to the enemy. Speeding out to where he had room to maneuver was a bad idea, too, since that would just give them a chance to catch up and a clear shot. His best hope was to fill the playing field with obstacles, and the best obstacles were more manned spacecrafts.

As promised, the guard ship fired, but Rocket was ready for it, and he got off one well-placed shot first. He veered to avoid the missile aimed at him; the enemy wasn’t as successful at avoiding the one aimed at them. With the head of their fleet faltering, he was free to soar into the planetary access route, full of traffic.

There was a reason the Guardians had needed the Astrans’ cover to get into the compound, and the access codes from Keelah to get that far. This was a bad part of the galaxy, and anyone flying in range of Rocket’s sensors was sure to be someone involved in some shady business. They wouldn’t be responsive to any kind of authority, even a fleet of enforcers for an operation owned by Thanos. 

They would, however, be very responsive to a violent chase happening in their midst. As soon as Rocket steered the Lotus Leaf into a crowded area, the guards stopped shooting at him. They had to, or every ship in the vicinity would have turned on them, outraged that a personal quarrel was taking place where it would endanger noncombatants. Now that Rocket had made it this far, all he needed to do was duck and weave through the traffic flow to gain more distance from his pursuers.

Threats were still coming in through his speakers, usually some variation on: “You can run, but you can’t hide.” Rocket had responded at first with whatever insults came to mind, but the fact was that they were right, and he didn’t want to reveal that he knew that. When the chase terminated, it had to look like they had cornered him.

Finally he had reached the end of the line of commuters, having bought at least a half hour of time before the security fleet reached him -- more time than he needed to complete the task. He stopped the ship, sweating as if he had been running away on foot instead of sitting in a pilot’s seat. On his navigation screen, a bright dot representing the Milano gleamed, assuring him that it was now within the range he needed and not moving. He felt a rush of gratitude toward whoever had made the call to wait for him. If there was trouble on board, he and Peter would probably die, but at least they would die at home.

Wearily he released himself from the seat and stumbled his way through the ship back down to the cargo bay. The pod was where he had left it, and Peter didn’t seem to have a hair out of place. That was only to be expected, what with suspended animation being the entire purpose of the pod, but Rocket still half-collapsed over it, shedding tears of relief or stress or the fear he had been holding back for so long. “Okay,” he sniffled. “Okay, Pete, I’m gonna get the teleporter set up. It should still be good for just this one more ‘port, since it’s only the two of us.” He pushed himself back to his feet and programmed the controls for the ring of beam projectors, checking the remaining power levels and the input of coordinates until satisfied that they were as reliable as they were going to get. “All set. Now we need to get to the center of the ring. Ten minutes or so and it’ll activate automatically.”

Instead of hauling Peter out of the pod, he pushed the entire thing into the middle of the floor, aided by the design of the device, which slid along as guided so that he didn’t need to take its full weight. It even had a function to lock into the floor again in its new location, which meant it would remain here when Peter and Rocket were ported out. “I’m not gonna try to wake you up,” Rocket informed Peter as he removed the lid from the pod. “It’s easier on your system if you’re already unconscious, ‘cos of the…’cos of the…” He yawned. “I’ll explain it all when you’re awake, if ya want.”

With careful movements, he climbed into the pod. There was just enough room to lie down beside Peter, head nestled over his heart. “So here we are,” he mused. “Not too long ago I was the one sleepin’ through it all, and you watchin’ over me.” He shuddered and clutched Peter’s shirt. “I never been as scared as I was when we went into that operating room. You probably think I blocked it out and I don’t remember nothin’, but I do. I know I freaked out and thought it was another experiment. I know you were there the whole time. You talked to me and you sang songs and you kept sayin’ it was all gonna be okay until I started believin’ you.

“That kinda thing never happened to me before. I didn’t think people like you would ever want anythin’ to do with someone like me. I figured even Groot only stuck around ‘cos he didn’t know any better. But no matter what I do, all the shit I pull, you’re still there when I need you.”

For a minute he lay silently, letting Peter’s breath move him. The teleportation device surrounding them made only a subtle noise, but he knew it was working properly and would soon take them away from here. He knew the laboratory security ships were close now too, getting ready to immobilize the Lotus Leaf and board, or just destroy it outright. One way or another, it would all be over soon. 

“I can’t say for sure we’re gonna survive this jump,” he said to Peter. “I think I did what you woulda wanted, though. I got all the prisoners out. They’re safe now. Makers ain’t gonna get any more material for more like me. Gamora and Drax and Groot, I think they’re gonna be okay, too.” He yawned again and embraced Peter around the neck, knowing that the disappearance of the pod would disrupt his position so that nobody on the other side of the jump would read too much into it. “If you do make it, I don’t got any regrets. I’m glad we met. Thanks for all the second chances. Maybe someday I can explain all that when you’re awake, too.” 

The quiet thrum from the teleporter changed pitch, signaling the next stage of initialization. Rocket trembled. “Pete, don’t laugh, but I’m gonna sing a song for you. I’m gonna sing your song from your tape like you sang it to me when I was under, and I hope it works the same way because here it comes, Pete. Here we go, Star-Lord. Wake me up on the other side. _I really wanna know you, really wanna go with you…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lucky thing was that I have some time off in which I'm free to do nothing but work on fic, if I so choose. The unlucky thing is that I'm having a really weird kind of writers' block, where I'm staring at the open document for hours on end and getting down a few words at a time but never actually committing to it. Gotta tell myself I've got one more big push to get it all done, just like Rocket.
> 
> Did you like this chapter? I didn't have Rocket's woobie moment at the end planned out very far in advance, but I felt like it was appropriate after everything he's just been through.


	23. The Takeaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time fooooor...."What the Hell Happened After the Teleport"!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last couple chapters have been pretty much my bare minimum for length, which I kind of regret, but I think it's the best way to keep myself moving. Please, if you have anything to say, drop it on me and help me tape up the seams on this! You don't know how much that helps!

Peter felt weaker than he could remember ever being, but the pressure in his head was subsiding, and the pain in his muscles was fading into mere weariness. Rocket was a comfortable weight on his chest, completely still aside from his breathing, and Peter found just enough energy to stroke his head, leaving his other hand settled on his back. Everyone had said that Rocket would be okay, that they both would, but it was hard to take that on faith before seeing him wake up.

As if the thought had carried over to him, Rocket began to stir, then pushed himself up on one hand to look at Peter with bleary eyes. He blinked four times, rubbed a hand across his face, and said, “Pete?”

“Hi,” said Peter, smiling. “You feel okay?”

“Like I been put through a meat grinder,” Rocket grunted. He let his head fall back down to Peter’s chest. “We’re...not dead, huh.”

“What tipped you off?”

“Heaven would hurt less. Hell you wouldn’t be here.”

He said it so casually, as if it were an immutable fact that Peter deserved better than he did, even now. Of course, he probably didn’t comprehend everything that had happened, yet. “We’re on the Milano,” Peter informed him. “In my bunk. Gamora and Drax and Groot are out there, ready to wait on us hand and foot until we get to Xandar and Nova Corps takes over. You did it, Rocket. You saved us.”

No response. Hesitantly, Peter began petting again, rubbing circles on his back through the soft fabric of the pajamas that Groot had dressed him in. Maybe it was time to call Groot back in, but Peter had a feeling that Rocket wasn’t ready for his happy reunions yet. “You want to go back to sleep?” he asked softly. “I got some painkillers over here.”

Rocket’s voice was even softer, and muffled against Peter’s t-shirt, but Peter made out the words, “I murdered some of ‘em.”

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.”

“Yeah but…” He made the effort to move his head, which Peter didn’t envy him, remembering how much it had hurt when he first woke up. “You didn’t want me to do that. You said I couldn’t decide who deserved it.”

Peter’s heart fell. “Is _that_ what’s bothering you? Dude, those guys were the root of all evil. And you couldn’t have gotten us out any other way. You did all the deciding you had to do.”

Rocket kneaded a handful of Peter’s sleeve, his claws just barely poking through to scrape the skin. “I killed animals, too,” he said, with the air that he was making another confession. “They were innocent. Whole room full of ‘em, all scared and brainless in their cages, and I just...wiped ‘em out.”

Of all the regrets that Rocket could have been harboring, this one was unexpected. Thinking about it, Peter realized that he didn’t really know how Rocket felt about animals, aside from his fury whenever anyone classed him as one of them. Maybe he still felt some kinship, or just a soft spot. Maybe, in his eyes, euthanizing the non-sentient victims of the laboratory was akin to mercy-killing an entire community. Peter couldn’t find the words. “Oh, Rocket,” he sighed, hugging him to his chest.

They took a few minutes for Rocket to cry, while Peter stroked him and whispered words of comfort. Considering how tired they both were, Peter was surprised when they both stayed awake through it, but he had too much on his mind now and he supposed the same was true for Rocket. “If you think it would help,” he ventured, “we could do a ceremony or something for them.”

Rocket rubbed his face with the back of his hand before answering. “I just want that place gone. Blown to smithereens. I woulda done it myself but I didn’t have the time or explosives...”

“Oh. Good news. Gamora gave the coordinates to Nova Corps and they got there before the stragglers escaped. There’s plenty of evidence, so they’re all getting life imprisonment and the facility’s gonna be purged. Not to mention, their records gave us a ton of names and operations connected to Thanos. Nova Prime was real excited about that one, since it means they can finally get on the offensive.” He smiled. “How’s that for smithereens?”

“‘Splosives would be better,” Rocket muttered, but it was clear he was pleased. “We still got a ship full a’ freeloaders?”

Peter furrowed his brow, trying to remember. He had only been out of bed once since waking up, and Gamora and Drax had been trying not to overload him with information. “Like...six left, maybe? Most got dropped off already. All the Astrans, thank God. I was just about ready to kick their asses when I heard they teleported without us.”

“Hrmph,” Rocket agreed. “Did those dog things die?”

The two beasts that Peter had freed from the lab had only been mentioned in passing -- Drax had disposed of their bodies out the airlock, apparently -- but they had stayed in the back of his mind. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s a’right. Least they got out.”

The weight of Rocket’s body was starting to feel cumbersome, and Peter tried to shift him a little off to the side, reasoning that the emotional support of close contact wasn’t as vital anymore. He got nipped on the wrist for his trouble, but too lightly to hurt, and then Rocket slid himself off and nestled his head comfortably in the crook of his arm. It was amazing, Peter reflected, how intuitively they seemed to understand each other since the surgery. There was no need to discuss how they would spend their recovery; it would be in this bunk, together.

“Hey,” said Rocket drowsily. “How ‘bout that reward you promised me? Did we cash in?”

“I never promised you a reward.”

“Pretend like you did and then answer the friggin’ question.”

Peter feigned ignorance for a few more moments to build suspense. When he had Rocket glaring and swatting at him, he finally revealed it all: “Hell yeah we cashed in. Turns out some of those prisoners who hated Gamora so much were bona fide Gramosian nobility. The ransom for the _least_ important one was eighty thousand units.”

Rocket wheezed out a triumphant laugh, the first genuinely happy sound that Peter had heard from him since he had awoken. Peter didn’t squander the chance to tease him for his greed, but the truth was that they were of the same mind in this. Money meant that they could do whatever they wanted next, and it felt good to know that their hard work and sacrifice were getting acknowledged. It was time for a break: no missions, no jobs, just five Guardians sipping overpriced cocktails on some tourist planet with a lot of beaches.

“‘M gonna buy all the guns,” yawned Rocket. “An’ the stuff to make some aerorigs so we can go flyin’. An’ I’m gonna buy you a music.” 

“A music?” Peter echoed, as charmed as he was amused.

“Y’know, some Terran dorks with guitars or whatever I can hire to follow us around doin’ the music we want. Don’t worry, they’ll do it if I pay ‘em enough.”

It was clear that Rocket was going to fall back asleep soon, but he had just reminded Peter of something that he didn’t think he could hold back. “Rocket. There’s one more thing you should know.”

Rocket’s eyes opened and locked on his, the question in them as clear as words.

“They uncovered some records in the lab. _Your_ records. Stuff that was never public, and I think there’s going to be some of it that you never knew about.”

There was a pause before Rocket spoke, sounding much less sleepy now. “Did...did ya see any of it?”

“Not myself, but Gamora was going through the files, and she said she read through a lot of yours before she realized what it was. Some of it didn’t make much sense to us. You might have more luck with it, when you’re ready.” He took a deep breath. “One thing was for sure. It had your planet of origin listed, and, well...it’s the same as mine. You were a Terran raccoon.”

“Oh.” Rocket remained silent after that one solemn word, and Peter couldn’t decide if he should prompt him for more of a reaction. Maybe he needed to contemplate it internally, or maybe it just wasn’t important to him. After all, he was more than a raccoon now, and it wasn’t as if he had family to find anywhere.

Peter resumed petting his head, vaguely hoping it would help Rocket sleep but help Peter stay awake. Gamora deserved a full report on their status, but he didn’t want to call anyone in here until Rocket was either asleep or willing to receive company. 

“Pete…”

“You should rest. We’ll talk about it later.”

Rocket ignored him. “Why was Thanos experimentin’ on Terran raccoons?”

Peter hesitated. He had only thought about this revelation in terms of what it meant for Rocket. The bigger picture hadn’t even crossed his mind. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy,” said Rocket, quiet as a breeze. “It matters.”

So it had finally happened: Rocket was putting him to shame in the heroism department. Peter nudged him with a bent finger. “What are you, some kind of a saint all of a sudden?”

“I been hangin’ around people like you too long,” Rocket complained, but he managed a tired smile at Peter. “Hope you’re ready for another trip home.”

Peter’s face dropped as he saw the curtains closing on his visions of relaxing in the sunshine with the team. “You want to go to Earth again?”

“Not really, but we gotta get on this fast. How long was I out for, anyway?”

“Not long enough, apparently. Go back to sleep.”

Rocket attempted to bare his teeth, but seemed to realize that it was a pathetic attempt and covered it by licking his lips. “ _You_ go back to sleep.”

Peter stretched, just enough to make him decide that stretching was not at all what he needed right now. The answer to Rocket’s question was at least a day and a half, but Peter had first woken about eight hours after the teleport, so he knew his body had endured the shock of it better. It concerned him that he didn’t know why. It might have been something as simple as their relative body mass, but Rocket hadn’t explained enough about how the device worked to know if there was any danger specific to cybernetic anatomy. Not to mention, Peter barely knew anything about what had happened beforehand. Rocket might have been hurt in other ways that he was still concealing.

Well, bringing it up now wasn’t going to get anywhere. “First can I tell the others you’re up?” Peter requested meekly. “They’ve been worried about you.”

Rocket hesitated, then said, “Yeah but...I don’t wanna talk yet. Just pretend I went back to sleep, okay?”

Peter agreed and pulled a blanket over both of them, then reached over to hit the call button. By the time a stampede of footsteps had stopped outside the door, Rocket was curled up against Peter’s chest with his eyes closed.

Gamora entered first, making her steps slow enough to be silent but big enough to move quickly, in a comical exaggerated tiptoe that Drax and Groot both copied in their own ways. Peter grinned broadly at them and put a finger to his lips, then pointed at Rocket and shook his head to indicate they shouldn’t wake him up.

“I am Groot,” Groot whispered, and something about it twisted Peter’s heart a little. He couldn’t remember ever hearing Groot whisper before.

Whatever he had said, it was spoiling Rocket’s ruse for anyone close enough to see that tears were seeping through his closed lids and collecting in his fur. Groot knew better than to call him out, though. He simply brushed his fingers over Rocket’s head, wiping away the teardrops with one tendril, and repeated his whispered words.

“How long was he conscious?” asked Drax. His quietest voice still had a booming quality to it, as if it were a distant echo of a shout, but it wasn’t disruptive.

“Not long,” Peter fibbed easily. “He just woke up long enough to ask if you were all okay, then he went back to sleep.” He looked down at Rocket, a peaceful lump of fur and pajamas and steady breathing, and knew it was no longer a fib to add, “Yeah. He’s asleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, I did it. I wrote an entire chapter which is nothing but Peter and Rocket cuddling from beginning to end. No regrets.


	24. Closing Montage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin: all the loose ends get tied up. All the ones I could think of, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man this is a long one. And guess what? For once I'm actually happy with it. Or maybe I'm just happy that I finished writing this chapter, meaning that there's only ONE LEFT TO GO (more on that below).

Nova Prime received the Guardians with ceremony, although they had haggled it down beforehand so that it mostly consisted of some applause in an audience chamber. Peter made sure that Rocket was standing front and center to show that he deserved the lion’s share of accolades, but he also couldn’t stop glancing down to check on him, anxious that he wasn’t ready to be walking without support yet.

Rocket said he was, though, and there was no use fighting him on it, so they all stood in their places to accept the gratitude of Nova Corps. Rocket showed no outward sign of weakness, although Peter knew he was still feeling it, and he shifted restlessly through Nova Prime’s brief speech, bored as ever by formalities. As soon as he had an opening, he surprised everyone by responding, “Yuh huh. You guys got a pilot missing, name of Tetrouni Raas?”

A ripple of exclamations came from the gathered officials, and Denarrian Dey stepped forward to respond, all protocol gone from his manner. “What do you know?”

“He’s dead,” said Rocket curtly. “But he helped me. Tell his family they were on his mind.”

Dey had the grace to keep his next few questions as impersonal as possible, and the ceremony concluded swiftly. It was followed by a feast, but before they had sat down at their table, Rocket stumbled over nothing and caught himself on Peter’s leg, then stayed leaning on it while he caught his breath. The table blocked him from view for most of the guests in the ballroom, but Peter tried to look nonchalant about lowering to a crouch beside him, as if looking for something he had dropped on the floor. “What’s wrong?” he said in a low voice, holding Rocket steady with one hand.

“Nothin’. Just got dizzy for a sec.”

Peter scowled. “That’s it. I’m calling Dr. Shanthig.”

“Now?” Rocket gave him an imploring look. “I’m hungry.”

The standoff lasted until Peter realized that for once, Rocket wasn’t refusing medical attention, just attempting to put it off a little longer. They did need to eat, and it was bad form to leave a feast in their honor, after all. On festive occasions Peter usually spent the evening trying to match Drax drink for drink, which inevitably led to Drax removing him from the premises in a fireman’s carry, but this time he limited his intake and held himself ready to carry Rocket out instead.

In the end, Groot ended up carrying Peter out, with Drax carrying Rocket and Gamora hovering around them telling them how stupid they were to let this happen.

“I don’ get it,” Peter slurred, trying to point his eyes somewhere besides the bobbing floor. “I had two glashes. Jus two.”

“Telpup...teplapo..tel-uh-por-tay-shun sicknesh,” said Rocket, nodding sagely from Drax’s arms. “One-beer drunk.”

Gamora’s step turned to stomping. “If you _knew_ that,” she scolded Rocket, “you shouldn’t have had any alcohol at _all!_ ”

“They’ll both vomit so much tomorrow,” said Drax with a hearty laugh. “Their entire room will smell too foul for anyone else to enter.”

“Shut up!” Gamora ordered, and Peter had just enough awareness left to hear how genuinely upset she was. “I’m not leaving them to drown in their own sick even if they’re a pair of idiots who deserve no better!”

“‘Mora,” ventured Peter, trying to reach a hand out to her but missing by at least a yard. “S’okay…”

She moved toward him and caught his hand, only to place it back on Groot’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” she promised him icily. “Now don’t test me any further.”

Before his heaving stomach commandeered his full attention, Peter caught one last glimpse of Rocket, head lolling back, grinning like a fool. He raised both arms in an unbalanced shrug, then began singing in a loud and completely off-key voice: “We could be heroesh! Jus’ fer one day!”

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Framed in the holoscreen, Dr. Shanthig pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head in reprimand. “Are you telling me you made a ship-to-ship jump, through a teleporter you _built yourself_ , while you were still exhausted from a battlefield situation, and you never even considered that you might not have been fully recuperated from your surgery yet?”

“Sorry,” said Peter, lifting his haggard head. He really was.

“I was talking to Rocket, not you,” the doctor snapped.

Rocket was sprawling right next to him on the oversized bed in their Nova Corps accommodations, but he was barely listening, and Peter in his misery responded first again. “But I’m his guardian. I was supposed to be looking after him.”

That got a reaction from Rocket, although a glare and a tail-twitch seemed to be all he could muster. “You’re my _what?_ ”

Gamora was the only other person in the room, pacing around the small area on the floor where she could see the holoscreen without blocking Dr. Shanthig’s view of the invalids on the bed. This was the longest she had gone so far without berating them, but now she broke her silence, bursting out with, “All of us are supposed to look after each other! That’s why I’ve been in here all day checking your vitals while you puke your guts out! That’s why you should have stopped each other drinking last night! That’s why we had the plan we had to escape the compound together! As a team!”

In perfect unintentional synchronization, Peter and Rocket looked at her and then at each other. Rocket shrugged and let his head fall back to the mattress. Peter said, “You don’t have to stay in here but it was really nice how you brought us those hot towels and that hangover remedy which hasn’t actually helped at all but…”

Dr. Shanthig cleared her throat loudly. “I’m sorry if your team is having interpersonal problems but I’m not that kind of doctor. Rocket, take a full body scan tomorrow and send me the results. You should stop feeling the effects of the displacement syndrome within a week, but give yourself a chance to heal this time. Quill, you’re practically over the syndrome already, so don’t act like a baby.”

Peter gave her a sulky look, but otherwise ignored the comment. He prodded Rocket’s tail with his toe. “She’s right. You were supposed to rest for longer.”

Rocket made a grumpy sound. “I was limpin’ around in those braces long enough. I ain’t gonna spend the rest a’ my life recoverin’ from one thing or another.”

Frustrated beyond caring who else was listening, Peter retorted, “You are if you get killed in the middle of recovering because you’re doing it wrong! Come on, man! I keep telling myself I can’t force you to stay alive but is that gonna have to be what I write in your obituary?”

“I can’t force me to stay alive either, tool.” Rocket’s voice was getting angrier. “Learn to live with it, ‘cos I ain’t gonna let you keep me in a hamster ball for the next ten years.”

“Ten…? Rocket, you’re talking like you’re already on your deathbed.”

“Doc,” said Rocket, addressing the holoscreen directly for the first time. “Be honest. Rough estimate, how much time I got left? If old age wins?”

Such frankness was too much for Peter to handle at the moment. He couldn’t even make himself beg Rocket to stop talking about the short lifespan he anticipated for himself, so he cast a helpless look at Gamora, then at Dr. Shanthig when Gamora failed to notice. The doctor, for her part, had an expression of uncertain wariness, and instead of answering Rocket, she said, “Quill, that...research material that I gave you?”

Peter remembered just in time that she had asked him to be discreet about the Halfworld video, and kept his response to, “Yeah, we’ve been, uh, studying. Didn’t get through all of it yet. What about it?”

“You didn’t see?” She frowned. “Maybe it wasn’t clear. Rocket, the footage of several of the experiments implies that your cell regeneration was improved. I can’t offer you any guarantees, but my own observations on your anatomy back it up. I believe that if you keep your cybernetics properly maintained, you’ll outlive us all.”

Peter and Gamora both went from staring at her to staring at Rocket, though he hadn’t moved and looked more dazed than anything. “Dude…” Peter breathed.

Gamora’s voice cut the tension with a sharp cheer of triumph. “I _knew_ it!”

“How did _you_ know it?” demanded Rocket.

“The records from the compound--”

Dr. Shanthig cut in. “What records?”

Rocket pawed Peter’s ankle. “You tell her.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Gamora authoritatively. “Dr. Shanthig, we’ve obtained another source of information on the Halfworld Experiments. Some of their scientists were still active until last week, and we’re looking into finding their patron to take down the operation permanently. I wonder if we could ask for your testimony.”

“Huh?” Peter interjected. “What’s this about?”

Gamora went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “We’d like to update Rocket’s legal status, and I think that may require your professional assessment that he’s an independent and sentient person. You told Peter that you could refer us to a lawyer, is that right?”

Startled, the pink woman tapped a finger against her lips. “Yes, although it may be an uphill battle unless you can find proof of his base species and its native planet.”

Peter heaved out a sigh. “Earth.” It looked like he wasn’t going to get out of this, but on the other hand, Gamora had a brilliant idea, and Rocket had a long life ahead of him. Things could be a lot worse.

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

By the time evening fell, Peter and Rocket had managed to put on clean clothes and move out to their quarters’ balcony, and the other Guardians joined them, sipping cold tea from a pitcher under a patio umbrella that Peter could almost pretend was on a beach planet.

Gamora refused a beverage and stood at the railing, bowing her head to look down at the expansive view of the city, her back to the table. “Gamora,” said Peter, but she didn’t move. “Gamora. Come sit down.” He thumped the cushioned chair beside him.

“Close enough to smell you?” she said without turning. “I think not.”

Rocket and Drax laughed raucously. Peter lost some cool. “It’s been like four hours since either of us upchucked. We don’t smell. Just come over here and tell me what you’ve been so worked up about.”

She finally faced him, and he saw the anger melting away from her as she moved to take the empty seat. “It was just me and Groot on the Milano,” she began. 

“I am Groot,” said Groot, and she nodded.

“I was there,” said Drax. “I would have helped you if I was conscious.”

Gamora nodded again, this time with less patience. “But you weren’t, and those Astrans...I thought we could trust them, but they had their children there, and they were afraid they would be caught again. Then there were the others, the Gramosians who knew who I was, and they swore I was up to something, and soon everyone was fighting. Groot didn’t understand. He kept them away from me when they tried to attack, so nobody got hurt, but I couldn’t explain to him that we had to stop Marwek from activating the teleporter.”

“We made it, though,” said Rocket, making both Peter and Gamora blink in surprise. He hadn’t even looked like he was paying attention. Groot’s face had contorted with sadness at Gamora’s story, and Rocket was giving him a reassuring pat.

“No thanks to me,” Gamora answered bitterly. “I was helpless. I haven’t felt like that since…”

Peter put his hand over hers on the table, hoping she understood that she didn’t have to tell them about the last time she had felt like that. “Sometimes it doesn’t happen like we meant it to.”

“At least you had your eyes open,” Rocket added. “Unlike these bozos. I was lucky you kept the Milano in hover, or me an’ Pete coulda been ported outta the atmosphere in a billion itty-bitty pieces.”

Drax grunted in agreement. “And you and I were lucky that Groot was there while I was unable to break anyone’s bones.”

Peter wondered momentarily how the events would have played out if Drax had been in bone-breaking condition, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. “And all of us were lucky that Rocket had the balls to--” He stopped, feeling his cheeks heat up. “I mean courage. Rocket had the courage to save everyone.”

Of course it was useless to try to cover up the slip when Drax was there to ask, “Why don’t you want to say balls? You’ve already explained to me that it’s a metaphor for courage. We know you aren’t really referring to his testicles.”

Fortunately, Rocket was the first to laugh, the sound of it resigned but genuine. “That’s ‘cos I don’t got any, Drax,” he said, then raised an eyebrow at Peter. “She toldja, huh?”

“I apologize,” said Gamora stiffly.

“What for? You don’t got ‘em either!” He was still laughing, and Peter couldn’t help but join in.

“I am Groot!”

“Ahahaha, that’s right you don’t!”

Drax was laughing too now, and Groot was grinning widely, and finally Gamora cracked a smile and then broke into giggles, dropping her forehead into her hand with her elbows on the table. “You’re all a bunch of vulgar bums.”

“And you’re bursting with pride to be one of us,” said Peter. He raised his glass of iced tea. “To the best bums, losers, a-holes, and jackasses in the galaxy.”

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Cosmo looked as happy as any dog that Peter had ever seen, wagging his tail a mile a minute and positively bouncing out of the comm screen. _:Guardians have survived great adventure! Please tell Cosmo, will heroes of galaxy now be returnink to Knowhere?:_

Peter shook his head apologetically. “We’re on our way to Terra. Don’t ask, it wasn’t my idea but I guess we’ve got more work to do. I just wanted to let you know you can stop investigating that ‘Phiggre’ thing.” 

_:Da!_ replied Cosmo cheerfully. _:Conclusion of thrillink tale has reached Knowhere already. Cosmo has familiar faces here to see Star-Lord.:_ He looked offscreen and said, _:Speak!:_ , and the view of the comm panned off of him and onto three faces which were, indeed, very familiar.

“Keelah,” said Peter, taken aback. “Oh, wow. Marwek. Wuul. The family’s all back together, huh?”

“We’re being detained here,” said Marwek by way of greeting. “Our crimes weren’t heinous enough for interstellar law to take notice, apparently, and Nova Corps didn’t know enough to chase us, but this, uh, security chief dog says he’ll carry out any sentence the Guardians of the Galaxy see fit to lay on us.”

_:Da!:_ said Cosmo again, his psionic voice still somehow carrying over the connection though he himself wasn’t visible.

Peter blinked. It had only been a day since they had left Xandar, and he still felt a little physically out of sorts, but he had already put the Yttulrioks out of his mind. He certainly hadn’t expected to be designated the arbiter of their destinies. He picked up his handheld comm and touched a button. “Hey Rocket?”

“Yeah?” came the answer from somewhere deep in the ship.

“Should we punish those Astrans who strangled me and put you in the hospital and chased us all over and roped us into doing their dirty work and tried to run off with our ship and friends?”

There was a very slight pause, then, “Nah.”

“‘Kay, thanks.” Peter ended the call and shrugged at the three siblings, who were watching him with varying levels of incredulity. “Looks like you’re off the hook.” He winked at Keelah. “I won’t tell your husband if you don’t, deal?”

None of them smiled, and Keelah’s eyes widened and glistened. Wuul’s voice was grave: “Most of our friends and families came out of the laboratory safe and sound. My brother-in-law did not.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry,” said Peter, stricken. “I didn’t think…”

“Never mind,” said Wuul. “We’re grateful for your help in rescuing the others. And for your mercy.” All three of them exited the frame, Keelah lingering long enough to cast him a tearful look and a kind of graceful bow.

Cosmo returned. _:So scoundrels will be released. Is good. Cosmo would be sad to inform nice children that parents are criminals.:_

“Anything else I can do for you, Chief? It’s gonna be pretty hard to get in touch with us once we hit the Milky Way. Again: not my idea.”

_:Da, one thing, yes.:_ He sat on his haunches, ears perking up. _:Please tell story of freeink prisoners from evil laboratory. Include details!:_

Peter hesitated, but he had nothing better to do. Anyway, this story would probably be in high demand later, so he needed some practice in telling it. “Okay. So. It’s looking grim for the Guardians. Star-Lord is KO’d, the beautiful and dangerous Gamora is in the hands of the, uh, Astran spies. Then this utter maniac saves the day…”

//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\//////////\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Going into his bunk, Peter heard Rocket’s voice before he saw him, although it wasn’t the voice of the Rocket he knew. The Halfword video had shown that he was given a voice box programmed with the accent and speech patterns of a young Cockney male, and Rocket had apparently changed it to suit himself at some point after his escape. It had been strange at first to see his face but hear someone else’s voice, but now Peter found it a relief to be able to use it to separate the Rockets of past and present in his mind.

Now the present Rocket was sitting on Peter’s bed, watching himself bristle at his makers and demand to know what he had once been. Peter hadn’t seen this part before, and he wasn’t sure what Rocket would want out of it right now. He sat down behind him instead of beside him, one leg on each side, and Rocket leaned back against his chest almost automatically.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Peter asked when Rocket began skipping ahead.

“Was. We missed that stuff about cell regeneration that the doc was talkin’ about ‘cos it was in a part with Lylla, not me. She was agin’ too fast, so when they made me they tried out a different thing.” He stopped the footage for a few seconds, then fast-forwarded again. “I don’t like lookin’ at her,” he confided. “She deserved better.”

Peter offered what comfort he could using his hands rather than words, and Rocket leaned into the slow strokes while keeping his eyes on the video. He sounded calm enough when he said, “Plus I figured, if I got any other secrets, I oughta be the one to know about ‘em first.”

“Heh, yeah. Since Dr. Shanthig found out about your lifespan, and Gamora found out you’re a Terran, and I figured out you were a hero before you even had a _clue_...”

Rocket chuckled softly and sighed. He paused the feed on a stillframe that didn’t have him in it. “I figured out what to do with all our money.”

Peter feigned surprise. “What, no guns and aerorigs and personal rock n’ roll minstrels?”

“Blossomor.” He stretched his neck up and around to see Peter’s face. “I checked it out and we can afford the spot where Groot and Drax stayed, plus about another two thousand acres. We can keep it safe. Go there when we need somewhere to rest.”

“You mean someday I might actually get my vacation?” Peter smiled and rubbed Rocket’s ears. “That sounds great. Let’s talk it over with the others tomorrow.”

They sat together in silence for a few moments, Rocket showing no inclination to start playing the video again, and Peter feeling the kind of sleepiness that made him consider the merits of going to bed against the pleasure of holding Rocket like this a little longer. 

Rocket’s voice was hesitant. “Is this...y’know, normal life? Good stuff breakin’ up all the bad stuff? Talkin’ about what to do tomorrow?”

Peter yawned. “Yeah, I think so. Can we go to sleep or are you still watching this?”

“No, I’m…” He shook his head, and finished his sentence sounding like he was realizing something for the first time. “I’m not gonna get anything else out of it. Am I?”

“No,” Peter agreed. After all, the video was nothing but Rocket’s past. “Let’s put it away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **~THE END~**   
> 
> 
> The final chapter will be an epilogue, quite short, non-essential and somewhat disconnected to the rest of the story, same as the epilogue for Detonation Imminent. So...goodbyes begin here, friends. Last chance to tell me if I did not, in fact, tie up all the loose ends. 


	25. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We should at least say hi to them. It's only polite."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The notes at the end are actually longer than the chapter. You are warned.

One thing you could say about life at the New Avengers Facility was that the technology was always up to date and working properly, the latest Stark Industries model of everything. Wanda didn’t like to depend on gadgets too much, but she appreciated having her own computer in the privacy of her room, designed specifically for her own modest needs.

Everything had an exception eventually, of course, and today her monitor showed nothing but an error message in huge letters. Wanda stared at it for a few seconds, tapped a few keys to no avail, then restarted it. The words on the screen didn’t change. 

She was beginning to feel perturbed, not because she wanted to use the computer so much, but because this kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen and it was hard not to see it as a sign of greater troubles to come. Avengers had enemies. Some of them might be hackers. 

Rather than let herself make too much of it, she knocked on Vision’s door to ask for his opinion. If anyone would know how to fix a computer, it ought to be a robot. She smiled ruefully. His origin had nothing to do with it; he was just good with machines because he was logical and intelligent. Anyway, she liked talking to him.

But Vision wasn’t in his room, and when she went farther down the hall to look for him, she found Rhodey instead. “You know where Vision went?” he asked her. “My computer’s acting weird, and I think he’s the closest we got to a pro here today.”

Wanda’s heart went cold. Quickly they compared notes and found that the error message was the same for both of them. They hurried on together until they reached Natasha’s study, and she called out from her desk, “I got him first. Come in here.”

Vision was stooped over her monitor, frowning at the now-familiar sight of large red letters on a black background, which read: CRITICAL FAILURE. “It’s on every screen in the facility,” he was saying as they entered. “But I’ve checked each internal system thoroughly, and I can assure you, there’s been no damage or suspicious activity.”

Natasha shook her head. “We don’t crash like this. Stark’s programs have a recognizable sequence that they play to warn of any malfunction, and this isn’t from any stage of it. Someone get him on the line.”

As they were waiting for his response, all eyes on the monitor, the words suddenly changed: SYSTEM TEST ERROR. DISREGARD PREVIOUS MESSAGE.

“Does that mean it’s okay now?” Wanda asked dubiously.

“No.” Everyone looked up; the voice had come from a holographic projection of Tony Stark on the wall that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “It means it was okay in the first place. They’re just messages. Everyone’s computer, phone, TV, microwave, Gigapet is fine. Few minutes more and I’ll have you back to whatever you were doing when it started.”

Rhodey looked skeptical. “So this was you?”

Tony rubbed a hand across his face, looking pained. “Let’s just say it was and then agree to never ask me why I did it.”

“...That _was_ meant to be an obvious untruth, wasn’t it?” asked Vision with polite integrity.

“Yes,” sighed Tony. “There’s someone else at work here, it’s a long story, we’re not in danger.”

Natasha leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “The signal came from outer space, didn’t it.”

“Outer space?” repeated Wanda, her voice overlapping Rhodey’s. 

Up in the little holographic window, Tony kept muttering and shaking his head, but Natasha looked over her shoulder at the others and said, “Oh, have I got a story for you.”

Wanda was about to ask more questions, but then the monitor on the desk changed again and she was the first to notice. “Look!”

GOTCHA AVENGERS  
SEE YOU IN A FEW

“Will we be sending a message back to them?” inquired Vision.

“Let me guess,” said Natasha. “We can’t.”

Tony was fussing with the controls on a panel at an angle they couldn’t see, but soon he gave up with a halfhearted shrug. “It’s a ring-and-run. Why am I not surprised.”

“Check this out,” said Rhodey, gesturing at a new phrase appearing on the screen. “A signature.”

TICK TICK BOOM  
LOVE,  
THE GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some perspective on how long I've been writing this story and thus how glad I am to be done with it, here are a few things that have happened since I started:
> 
> • _Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2_ had its theatrical release and heck it's already on its way to home release  
>  • There were a bunch of other MCU movies too  
> • I wrote no fewer than five GotG one-shot stories and one novella in another fandom  
> • I started shipping Peter/Rocket  
> • I got a Tumblr (@closelyrelatedtoraccoons, and someday I'm going to have to explain what that means)  
> • My porch had multiple visits from a raccoon with a limp (UGH, just GET THE SURGERY already)  
> • I traveled to four different countries  
> • I'm pretty sure I made some kind of remark in the vein of "It shouldn't be a problem to finish before the end of 2016"
> 
> This has been a much different experience than writing "Detonation Imminent", which I've been thinking about along the way because I'm curious about what causes a change in the writing process, and (especially) how readers respond. It's possible that the sequel was (overall) less popular because it wasn't a crossover, which was counterintuitive to me since I came from smaller fandoms where crossover doesn't mean both parts are taken from one big giant universe. This revelation may have had a tiny influence on why I used the Avengers in the epilogue. Mostly, though, I'm just dying to make "Trolling the Avengers" a real tag. Anyone want to help me out here?
> 
> Okay, so we need to talk about whether this is ever going to become a trilogy. I don't like writing too far off canon, and canon has already changed a lot and will soon be changing a lot more, and it would be difficult to incorporate it, not to mention how I never want to spend this long slogging through a fanfic again. So the wise thing for me to say here is no, I will never write another "tick tick boom" story. On the other hand, I have a couple ideas I want to use and I hate to close a door forever, so, I'm not going to be altogether wise. But take this as a firm DON'T COUNT ON IT. And if I ever do come back to this series, it will be after _Infinity War_ and everyone will have already forgotten about me and my story anyway. :) That's a joke, please don't try to reassure me.
> 
> You can expect me to be posting more one-shots in the near future -- keep a particular eye on "Legacy" if you're into that kind of thing -- although I'm ready to give myself a bit of a break for once, and I have this one story in the _Firefly_ fandom I've been meaning to finish. Also, I think I'm supposed to be writing some original fiction? I think I heard once that was a thing writers should do?
> 
> One other thing I wanted to mention is that I'm making a couple changes in my approach to posting fanfiction. This mostly doesn't apply here, since I'm moving out of FF.net (except for drabbles) and making this my sole GotG archive (I had been cross-posting to both). But the reason I'm doing it is because I find I spend too much time on the mechanics of online publication, and not enough on the actual writing part. It's very easy to putz around on this site making everything just so (like I'm doing now), checking how my stories rank for kudos and comments (yes, I do that, I'm not proud of it), and...responding to everyone who leaves me a kind word. 
> 
> I know not all authors post a reply to every comment. Some probably don't reply to any of them. I like being the kind of author who's always listening and showing her appreciation, but the flipside is that when I click the link just to say thanks, I'm subconsciously trying to boost my comment count and coax more readers to return and offer more comments. That's not a good mentality to have, and the only way I can think to break myself of the habit is to become more hands-off with my responses. Please, please understand that I'm grateful for every single comment I receive, but from now on I'm going to leave the gratitude as a given, and answer only when you ask a direct question or have an observation that I think merits some discussion.
> 
> The main thing to remember now and always, though, is that I'm ready to cater to my readers in whatever way I possibly can, because I love you people to pieces and I want to make you happy. So if there's ever anything you want from me, be it an acknowledgment, my thoughts about canon, or an insight on what I'm working on, say so and here I am.
> 
> Farewell for now, friends!


End file.
